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UCSD  Lib. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA   SAN  DIEGO 


3  1822024640435 


SICUT     PATRIBUS 

AND 

OTHER     VERSE 

B  Y 

OSCAR  FAY  ADAMS 


PUBLISHED    BY     THE     AUTHOR 


COPYRIGHT,  1906 

BY 
OSCAR     FAY     ADAMS 


THE     AUTHOR 

TO 

HIS    DEAR    FRIEND 
JAMES    EELLS 


This  Edition  of  Sicut  Patribus  and 
Other  Verse,  printed  by  Winthrop 
B.  Jones  at  Boston,  Massachusetts, 
during  the  Winter  of  1906  consists 
of  Five  Hundred  and  Ten  Copies 
of  which  this  is  Number 


CONTENTS 


I 
Sicut    Patribus 

Sicut  Patribus                ....  9 
II 

Cathedral  Verse 

The  Front  of  Peterborough  Cathedral  .  .          25 

At  the  Tomb  of  William  of  Wykeham  .          27 

At  Lincoln     .               .               .  .  .28 

Evensong  at  Norwich  Cathedral  .  .          30 

In  the  Galilee  at  Durham          .  .  .32 

In  Waltham  Abbey     .                .  .  .33 

In  the  Crypt  at  Winchester       .  .  .37 

On  a  Grave  at  Christchurch,  Hants  .  .          38 

Miserrimus      .               .               .  .  .39 

At  the  Grave  of  Jane  Carlyle    .  .  .40 

The  Burning  of  Conrad's  Choir  .  .          41 

III 

Miscellaneous 

A  Withered  Rose         .               .  .  .50 

Inevitable        .               .               .  .  .50 

Black  Rock,  Nantasket             .  .  .50 

December's  Wooing     .               .  .  .51 
Reality             .....           52 

Dear  Heart,  Believe     .               .  .  .53 

Cambridge       .               .  54 


Naboth            .               .               .  .  .56 

On  Truro  Moors          .               .  .  .GO 

At  Parting      .               .               .  .  .61 

Ut  Quid  Domine          .               .  .  .62 

O  Friend   Estranged      .               .  .  .64 

The  Artist's  Last  Picture           .  .  .65 

In  Peace  and  Quietness              .  .  .67 

In  the  Library  at  Elmwood  .  .  .69 
Hull  .....  71 
Which  .....  72 

What  Can  Drear  December  Say  .  .          7o 

Horatio  Nelson  Powers               .  .  .74 

A  Memory  at  Christmastide       .  .  .74 

Love  Is  So  Sweet         .               .  .  .75 

Before  the  Gate  of  Storms         .  .  .76 

At  Bay            .               .               .  .  .77 

A  Laggard  Spring        .               .  .  .79 


IV 

Post-Laureate  Idylls 


SECOND   SERIES 

The  Pleading  of  Dagonet           .  .  .83 

The  Vision  of  Sir  Lionel            .  .  .92 

The  Pleasaunce  of  Maid  Marian  .  .102 

Gawain  and  Marjorie   .               .  .  .111 


POST-LAUREATE     IDYLLS 


SICUT    PATRIBUS 

A  Poem  read  at  the  annual  meeting  of  Tufts  Chapter, 
Phi  Beta  Kappa,  June  17, 1902 

I. 

Not  mine,  not  mine  the  hand  to  sweep  the  strings 

With  note  triumphal,  on  this  hallowed  day. 
I  am  no  prophet  to  foretell  smooth  things, 
Or  choose  a  nation's  glory  for  my  lay. 
The  time  for  paeans  is  not  yet,  or  past ; 

Rather  the  shuddering  call  that  strikes  us  dumb, 
When,  unto  consciences  aroused  at  last, 
The  mutterings  of  a  grim  tomorrow  come. 
These  be  no  times  for  lightsome  song  : 
The  shadow  of  a  mighty  wrong 
Darkens  the  path  before, 
Clings  like  a  mist  behind  ; 
We  crouch,  who  stood  of  yore  ; 
We  grope,  who  now  are  blind. 


10  SICUT  PATRIBUS 

Alas  for  us!  the  sons  of  patriot  sires, 

Breathing  the  air  of  freedom  from  our  birth, 

Who  might  have  kindled  in  far  lands  the  fires 
Of  liberty,  transfigurer  of  earth  ; 

Who  might  have  raised  a  grateful  people  up 

To  drain  deep  draughts  from  freedom's  brimming 
cup; 

Who  might  have  shown    them    the    sure    way    to 
peace — 

Alas  for  us!  who  did  no  deeds  like  these. 

II. 

Alas  for  us!  who  light  the  fires  of  hate 

Instead  ;  who  dash  from  eager  lips  the  wine 
Of  freedom,  crying:  "Ours,  the  island   state! 

'Tis  we  must  hold  it  by  the  right  divine 
Of  Saxon  peoples,  whose  benignant  sway 
Inferior  races  may  not  once  gainsay." 

Ah  me!  wrhat  sounds  are  these, 

Borne  o'er  Pacific  seas? 

The  wail  of  a  people's  dirge, 

That  swells  as  the  gathering  surge, 

Filling  our  ears  with  shame, 

Staining  our  country's  name. 


SICUT  PATRIBUS  11 

How  do  we  brand  the  sullen  Turk  who  makes 
Armenian  villages  a  smoking  waste, 
A  heap  of  carnage  ;  or  his  pleasure  takes 
In  torture  by  his  hapless  victims  faced  ? 

No  more  may  we,  our  Pharisaic  hands 

Uplifting,  call  for  vengeance  on  the  Turk, 

While  in  far  tropic  isles  our  armed  bands 
Engage,  relentless,  in  like  cursed  work. 

III. 

In  shadowy  ranks  before  me  seem  to  rise 

The  men  of  Concord  and  of  Bunker  Hill  : 
Brave    souls,   who    wrung    from    England  that  fair 

prize, 

A  nation's  freedom,  that  we  cherish  still. 
With  questioning,  sad  eyes, 
As  in  a  strange  surprise, 

They  stand 

That  plain  heroic  band, 
With  parted  lips,  as  they  who  do  behold 

In  deep  amaze  some  undreamed  horror  wrought, 
And  pant  for  action,  as  in  days  of  old 

To  Freedom's  altar  each  his  offering  brought. 


12  SICUT  PATRIBUS 

Ah,  might  they  speak!  these  shadowy  risen  sires, 
Who  doubts  what  words  of  theirs  would  shame 

our  souls  ? 
The  fierce  rebukings  of  our  mad  desires, 

The  stern  contempt  for  our  unworthy  goals. 
They  never  learned  in  diplomatic  phrase 

To  hide  the  scheming  that  plain  speech   would 

shame. 
Their    words,   straightforward    as    their    clear-eyed 

gaze, 
Revealed  their  instant  purpose,  praise  or  blame. 

But  we, 
Heirs  of  a  land  made  free 

By  blood  and  strife  of  these, 
Have  walked  in  stranger  ways  : 

Unto  new  gods  our  knees 
Have  bent,  our  lips  sung  praise. 

IV. 

"  You,  sons  of  ours! "  I   seem  to  hear  them  say  : 
Drunk  with  the  wine  of  conquest,  you  ! 

What  sign  of  kinship  can  ye  show  today 

To  prove,  past  cavil,  this  your  lineage  true  ? 

We  grasped  the  sword  to  battle  for  the  right 
To  stand  as  freemen  forth  before  the  world. 


SICUT  PATRIBUS  13 

'Gainst  subject  peoples  is  your  armour  dight, 

For  greed  of  conquest  is  your  flag  unfurled. 
Tou,   sons  of  ours,   who  turn  your    swords'    keen 
blade 

Against  the  brown  man,  fighting  for  his  own  ? 
Intent  on  hearkening  the  behest  of  trade 

Your  human  hearts  grow  cold  as  any  stone. 
You,  sons  of  ours,  who  fling  aside  the  law 

And  doom  the  shuddering  Negro  to  the  stake 
In  wild  revenge,  or  cause  the  halter  draw, 

Sans  judge  and  jury,  as  your  choice  may  take — 
You,  carry  into  distant  tropic  lands 

The  flag  of  progress,  and  the  Christian  cross — 
Alas!  your  house  is  founded  on  the  sands 

Your  pride  is  baseless,  and  your  glory,  loss. 
Not  from  unworthy  palms 
Will  men  receive  the  alms 
You  think  to  dole. 
The  freedom-loving  soul 
Seeks  only  that,  and  that  denied,  he  spurns 

Your  vaunted  progress,  and  your  proffered  Christ, 
Meets  all  your  wiles  with  wiles  of  his,  and  turns 

A  scornful  foeman,  whom  you  deemed  enticed. 
False  to  the  lessons  that  ye  learned  in  youth, 

How  dare  ye  pray  for  victory  in  your  strife  ? 


14  SICUT  PATRIBUS 

You,  sons  of  ours,  that  with  no  thought  of  ruth 
Would  slay  the  native,  pleading  for  his  life! 
Ah,  no!  and  yet, 
Who  are  ye,  set 

In  this  same  land  we  died  to  free  ? 
Ye  bear  our  names,  and  if  it  be 
Our  blood  is  yours,  then  did  we  die  in  vain  ; 

The  pillars  that  we  raised  you  overturn  ; 
Unholy  purpose  binds  you  with  its  chain, 

And  all  we  strove  for  you  would  fain  unlearn." 

V. 

They  fade  from  sight,  these  builders  of  our  State, 

And  in  their  stead  appear  the  youthful  shades 
Of  those,  our  brothers,  whom  we  sent  but  late 
To  wage  fierce  combat  in  Philippine  glades ; 
To  gather  glory,  where  no  glory  waits  ; 

To  strive  for  honour,  where  no  honour  calls  ; 
To  bar  with  bayonets  the  opening  gates 

Whereat  the  Malay,  faint  for  freedom,  falls. 
"  O  Motherland!  "  they  cry  : 
"  It  had  been  bliss  to  die 
Fighting  to  save  the  State, 
But  our  ignoble  fate 
Doomed  us  to  die  in  vain  ; 


SICUT  PATRIBUS  15 

Our  blood  and  pain 

Spent  but  for  naught ; 

Our  hands,  that  might  have  brought 
Healing  and  peace  to  a  long  subject  race, 
Red  with  their  blood,  instead  ;  the   crowning  grace 
Of  conflict,  a  just  cause,  denied  our  souls, 
While  o'er  our  heads  the  tide  of  battle  rolls. 
O  Motherland!  that  you  should  send  us  then 
To  die  for  conquest,  who  had  died  for  men!" 

VI. 

These,  too,  depart,  and  in  a  shadowy  cloud 
A  host  of  swarthy  figures  'round  me  crowd 
Using  a  stranger  speech 
As  from  the  lips  of  each 
Escapes  the  bitter  cry  of  men  deceived. 

"  We  trusted  you,"  the  voices  seem  to  urge. 
"We  in  your  faith  and  purpose  true  believed, 
Till,  like  a  blow  from  Heaven,  fell  the  scourge, 
And  in  sad  truth  we  learned 
Our  friends  to  foes  had  turned, 
And  Spanish  fetters  were  reforged  anew. 

Ye  might  have  had  our  love,  who  gain  a  hate 
Undying,  might  have  garnered  praises  through 
The  years  to  come  from  a  new  island  State, 


16  SICUT  PATRIBUS 

But  hearkening  to  greed, 
Turned  from  us  in  our  need, 
And,  blindly  reckoning  on  our  feebleness, 
Struck  down  the  hand  that  had  been  raised  to  bless. 
How  have  ye  dealt  with  those  who  would  be  free 
As  ye  yourselves  ?      What  lessons  have  ye  taught 
Of  gentleness,  and  high  humanity, 

Of  Christian  purpose  and  of  noble  thought  ? 
Our  smiling  fields  are  waste 
By  Red  War's  fiery  haste  ; 
Our  smoking  villages 
Proclaim  the  flight  of  Peace, 
And  on  the  torturer's  ear  unheeded  falls 

His  victim's  cry.      Beside  a  hundred  streams 
The  unburied  brown  man  lies,  nor  frenzied  calls 
Of  wife  nor  child  shall  rouse  him  from  his  dreams. 

VII. 

A  nation's  honour  trembles  to  its  fall 
When,  at  the  call 
Of  angry  pride, 
It  swerves  aside 
From  well-worn  paths  of  truth  and  right 

And,  conscious  of  its  sad  mistake, 
Speeds  ever  on,  intent  to  fight 

'Gainst  right  itself  sooner  than  make 
Confession  :      "We  have  evil  wrought, 


SICUT  PATRIBUS  17 

But,  having  sinned,  will  sin  no  more  ; 
We  own  our  course  with  peril  fraught, 

And  turn  to  ways  we  trod  of  yore." 
Alas  for  us!  who  close  resentful  ears 

Against  the  urgings  of  that  inner  voice, 
And  council  take  of  our  unworthy  fears 

That  press  us  onward  to  an  evil  choice. 
The  Nemesis  that  follows  swift  upon 

The  man  or  nation  that  provokes  its  wrath. 
Hath  followed  in  our  track,  nor  will  begone 

Though  flights  of  angels  hovered  o'er  our  path. 
The  swift  decay 
From  day  to  day 
Of  high  ideals,  purpose  great, 
And  brave  imaginings  for  the  State — 
The  lust  of  empire,  pushing  to  the  wall 

The  weaker  races — greed  of  trade  that  pays 
No  heed  to  aught  but  sordid  gain —  these  all 

To  our  amaze 
Our  shameful  new  inheritance  are  made, 

Blinding  our  eyes  to  deeds  of  violence, 
Closing  our  ears  against  the  plea  for  aid, 

Cheating  our  souls  with  shallowest  pretence. 

Alas!  that  we 
Who  flamed  with  anger  at  the  deeds  of  Spain 


18  SICUT  PATRIBUS 

Done  in  our  Western  World,  should  stoop  to  be 
Her  copy  in  the  far  Pacific  main. 
Calling  a  world  to  witness  that  her  crimes 

Demanded  judgement  swift  and  sure,  we  caught 
The  sword    and    smote.      And    lo!    the    changeful 
times 

Reveal  us  to  the  same  tribunal  brought. 

VIII. 

Ill  counsel  they 
Who  urge  essay 
Persistent  in  a  dubious  course 

Though  all  the  gathering  signs,  presage 
Moral  defeat,  and  cry,  perforce, 

"  'Tis  shameful  weakness  in  our  age, 
Not  to  press  forward  what  is  once  begun." 
He  is  the  coward  who  would  seek  to  shun 

The  consequence  of  turning  back 

Upon  his  outward  track  ; 
Who  fears  the  foolish  word  of  fools  pronounced 

Upon  him,  more  than  good  men's  honest  scorn. 
The  moral  weakling  he  who  hath  renounced 

His  better  self,  and  soulless  walks  forelorn, 
And  as  the  man,  the  nation  that  persists 

In  ways  mistaken,  knowing  its  mistake  ; 
Almighty  purpose  halts  not  nor  desists 

Till  erring  peoples  full  confession  make. 


SICUT  PATRIBUS  19 

IX. 

Not  all  in  vain 
Ye  died,  who  dauntless  laid 

With  strife  and  pain 
The  keelson  of  our  Ship  of  State 

Though  we  have  blindly  strayed 
From  out  the  narrow  path  of  late, 

Somewhere  within  us  there  abides 
The  passion  for  a  righteous  cause 

We  learned  from  you.      The  swelling  tides 
Of  misdirected  purpose  pause 

Or  ever  they  o'erwhelm  us  quite  ; 

The  waning  light 
Ye  kindled  flames  anew 

As  we  review 

Our  heritage,  and  looking  back 
Upon  our  erring  track, 
Make  high  resolve  again  to  be 

Worthy  that  ye 

Should  own  us  as  true  sons  and  heirs, 
Mindful  the  while  the  alien  shares 
With  us  at  Freedom's  gracious  banquet  spread, 
Nor  e'en  the  humblest  turns  from  thence  unfed. 


20  SICUT  PATRIBUS 

X. 

But  you,  our  brothers,  whose  young  lives 

Too  soon  were  quenched  across  the  seas  — 
Are  there  no  balms  that  ruth  contrives  ? 
No  words  to  give  your  souls  release  ? 
Our  erring  Motherland 
Is  slow  to  understand, 
But  every  life  ye  gave 
Shall  help  at  last  to  save 
Her  from  herself,  to  bring  her  to  her  knees 

In  penitence,  and  therefore  not  for  naught, 
Ye,    wrongly    striving,     passed.      From     you     she 

caught 

The  first  misgivings  that  disturbed  her  peace 
That  was  not  peace,  her  poor  content 
That  all  her  ways  were  Wisdom-sent. 

XI. 

Nor  yet  in  vain  ye  died,  our  foes,  whom  we, 

But  for  our  blinded  eyes,  had  made  our  friends  : 

The  freedom  that  ye  strove  for  yet  shall  be 
The  guerdon,  and  the  eternal  sky  that  bends 

Above  both  lands  may  see 

With  joy  the  Filipino's  flag  unfurled 

And  a  new  nation  born  into  the  world. 


S1CUT  PATRIBUS  21 

The  memory  of  those  who  fell 

In  combat  stern  for  that  high  end 
Shall  sanctify  your  State,  shall  tell 

A  never-wearying  tale,  shall  send 
Its  inspiration  unto  those  who  stay 
Behind  to  welcome  in  the  longed  for  day, 
And  fill  them  with  such  love  for  their  fair  land 

They  never  understand 

That  have  not  freely  poured  their  choicest  wine 
Upon  the  altar  of  a  cause  divine. 

XII. 

O  God  of  Nations!  we  have  sorely  sinned. 

Thy  wind 
Of  destiny  we  may  not  stand  before. 

Thy  open  door 
Of  pardon  close  not  yet 

Upon  a  people  who 
Repent.      O  God!  forget 

Our  sin.      Let  all  we  do 
But  show  our  penitence.      Renew  our  mind. 

Point  us  the  way  we  should  remorseful  tread, 
That  we,  remembering  with  tears,  may  find 

While  we  have  sinned,  indeed,  Truth  is  not  dead, 

Though  we,  for  gain, 
Against  her  turned  our  arms, 

And  would  have  slain 
Her  with  our  selfish  harms! 


CATHEDRAL  VERSE 


THE    FRONT    OF    PETERBOROUGH 
CATHEDRAL 

He  reared  the  minster  portal  long  ago, 

The  "Golden  Borough's"  chiefest  architect, 

Scooped  in  its  rocky  face  three  caverns  deep, 

Piled  'gainst  their  sides  aspiring  carven  reeds, 

Banded  as  those  that  stand  in  neighbour  fens, 

Raised  o'er  this  work  of  his  a  soaring  mass 

Of  pediment,  and  pinnacle,  and  tower, 

And  spire — then  passed  into  the  darkness  whence 

He  sprang,  and  no  man  knoweth  of  his  name. 

Within  the  minster  aisles  lie  abbots  old, 

Frowning  in  marble  as  they  frowned  in  flesh, 

And  all  who  will  may  know  them  as  they  were  ; 

But  he  that  wrought  the  centuries'  delight, 

The  glorious  minster's  crowning   grace,   lives    not 

In  stiffly  sculptured  effigy  like  these, 

Nor  on  cathedral  fabric-rolls  are  writ 

The  letters  of  his  name.      What  matters  it? 


26  CATHEDRAL  PERSE 

He  breathed  one  song,  this  singer  of  the  past, 
And  all  the  air  yet  trembles  to  his  tones ; 
He  wrote  his  verse  across  the  minster  front 
Where  all  the  world  might  see,  and  not  one  line 
The  world  has  lost  through  centuries'  sun  and  storm. 
What  matters  that  he  left  his  verse  unsigned  ? 
What  boots  it  how  he  looked  to  those  who  saw  ? 

Ah!  Peterborough's  poet  questionless 
Knew  well  how  scant  the  worth  of  name  beside 
Achievement's  crowning  skill.      The  little  deed 
May  fitly  claim  the  signature's  reward 
Scrawled  underneath,  but  not  the  master's  work 
Needs  blurring  with  the  master's  name,  and  thus 
The  triple  gate  of  Peterborough  gleams 
Through  all  the  ages  from  its  maker's  times 
To  these,  as  fair  as  only  that  is  fair 
Which  has  no  need  that  men  should  ask   "Who 
wrought  ?  ' ' 


CATHEDRAL  PERSE  27 

AT  THE  TOMB 
OF    WILLIAM    OF    WYKEHAM 

Builder  and  prelate,  dust  five  hundred  years, 

Who  lent  the  Norman's  handiwork  such  grace 

The  Norman  never  knew,  that  Walkelin's  nave 

Men  call  the  nave  of  Wykeham,  what  dost  thou 

In  some  far  world  beyond  our  ken  ?      Palm  pressed 

To  palm  five  centuries  have  seen  thee  here 

Enchantried,  and  from  scholar  lips  thy  praise 

At  Winton  and  at  Oxford  echoes  still. 

Dost  somewhere  rest,  as  this  thy  marble  rests, 

Or  art  thou,  builder-bishop,  evermore 

Striving  in  other  fields,  in  nobler  toils, 

Serenely  glad  the  while  as  one  that  sees 

From    some   high  place,   untouched  by  time,   past 


Grow  ever  vaster  as  the  centuries  fall  ? 


28  CATHEDRAL  PERSE 

AT    LINCOLN 

When  I  went  up  the  minster  tower, 
The  minster  clock  rang  out  the  hour  ; 
The  restless  organ  far  below 
Sent  tides  of  music  to  and  fro, 
That  rolled  through  nave  and  angel  choir, 
Whose  builder  knew  what  lines  inspire, 
And  filled  the  lantern  space  profound 
With  climbing  waves  of  glorious  sound, 
As  I  went  up  the  minster  tower 
What  time  the  chimes  gave  forth  the  hour. 

When  I  stood  on  the  minster  tower 

The  lark  above  me  sent  a  shower 

Of  happy  notes,  that  filtered  through 
The  clouds  that  flecked  the  sky's  soft  blue, 
And  mingled  with  the  nearer  tones 
Of  jackdaw  calls  and  stockdove  moans, 
While  every  breeze  that  round  me  swirled 
Brought  some  sweet  murmur  from  the  world, 

As  I  stood  on  the  minster  tower 

What  time  the  lark  forsook  her  bower. 


CATHEDRAL   VERSE  '29 

When  I  came  down  the  minster  tower, 
Again  the  chimes  proclaimed  the  hour, 

Again  the  mighty  organ  rolled 

Its  thunders  through  the  arches  old, 

While  blended  with  its  note  so  strong 

Soft  rose  and  fell  the  evensong  : 

And  all  the  earth,  it  seemed  to  me, 

Was  still  by  music  held  in  fee, 
As  1  came  down  the  minster  tower 
What  time  the  clock  chimed  slow  the  hour. 


30  CATHEDRAL   VERSE 

EVENSONG  AT  NORWICH  CATHEDRAL 

Ouickly  'midst  these  arches  gray 
Dies  the  short  November  day  ; 
Through  the  nave  the  shadows  march, 
Muffling  column,  pier  and  arch, 
Filling  huge  triforium 
With  their  forces  fast  they  come  ; 
Sweeping  through  the  long  clerestory, 
Blotting  from  the  sight  the  hoary 
Ribbed  and  sculptured  roof  at  last 
Whence  the  day  more  slowly  past ; 
While  the  great  choir  windows'  glimmer 
Grows  each  moment  fainter,  dimmer, — 
Now  the  gloom  hides  everything! 

Sudden,  then,  the  tower  bells  ring, 
And  along  that  mighty  nave, 
Dark  before  as  deepest  cave, 
Lines  of  light  start  forth  and  burn, 
Sharp  revealing  every  turn, 
Curve,  or  line,  though  far  aloof 
In  the  groins  of  yonder  roof, 
Carved  by  chisel  mediaeval, 
Smile  of  saint  or  leer  of  devil. 


CATHEDRAL  PERSE  31 


Under  these  clear  lines  of  fire 
Move  the  purple-cassocked  choir, 
As  through  aisles  and  arcades  long 
Rolls  the  tide  of  evensong, 
And  the  organ's  undertone 
Trembles  through  the  walls  of  stone, 
While  the  anthem  note  is  telling, 
"  Oh,  how  amiable  Thy  dwelling." 

Swells  and  falls  the  song  of  praise 
In  the  mellow  music  maze, 
Echoes  from  each  far  arcade 
Like  the  songs  by  seraphs  made, 
Wanders  on  from  wall  to  wall, 
Fainter  seems,  then  ceases  all, 
Till  the  chanter  from  his  seat 
Murmurs  benedictions  sweet. 
Then  the  organ  peals  once  more 
While  across  the  footworn  floor 
Choir  and  hooded  canons  go, 
Two  by  two  and  moving  slow, 
Till  the  last  white  robe  is  made 
Invisible  in  columned  shade, 
And  a  moment  after  then, 
Floats  a  solemn,  sweet  "Amen!" 


32  CATHEDRAL   CERSE 

Soon  the  lines  of  fire  die  out, 
Darkness  folds  its  arms  about 
All  within  these  mighty  walls. 
When  the  last  faint  echo  falls 
Night  and  silence  join  their  files 
In  the  long  cathedral  aisles. 


IN    THE    GALILEE    AT    DURHAM 
CONFESSION 

We  have  erred  and  strayed  from  Thy  ways  : 
We  have  followed  too  much  our  desires, 

While  we  hid  from  Thy  heart-searching  gaze. 

We  have  erred  and  strayed  from  Thy  ways, 

And  have  wandered  in  sin  many  days, 

Where  no  breath  from  Thy  presence  inspires. 

We  have  erred  and  strayed  from  Thy  ways  : 
We  have  followed  too  much  our  desires. 


CATHEDRAL   PERSE  33 

IN    WALTHAM    ABBEY 

Here   is  the    temple  he  builded,   he,   Harold,   the 

bravest  of  Saxons. 
Somewhere    near    it  he    lies,  where  once  rose  the 

canons'  high  altar. 
Altar  and  rood  and  choir  walls  indeed  have  long 

crumbled  to  ruin  ; 
Only  the  nave  abides  yet,  with  its  double  arcade  of 

huge  columns, 
Carven  eight  centuries  since  with  deep  groovings  of 

spiral  and  chevron. 
Here  when  the  traitorous  Tostig,  his  brother,  had 

fallen  at  Stamford, 
Hard    by    Northumbrian    Derwent,    with    Harold 

Hardrada,  the  Norseman, 
Came,   with  a  few  in  his  train,   the  victor,   King 

Harold,  the  Saxon. 
Afar    in    the    north  the  foes  of  his  England  were 

broken  and  flying  ; 
Anear  in  the  south  the  foes  of  his  England  were 

gathered  together. 


34  CATHEDRAL  VERSE 

There  in  the  north  had  he  shivered  the  might  of 

fierce  Harold  Hardrada  ; 
Now  in  the  south  must  he  scatter  the  armies    of 

William  the  Norman, 
He  that  would  make  England  free,  he,  Harold,  the 

great  son  of  Godwin. 
So,  as  he  entered  the  fane  that  in  happier  time  he 

had  builded, 
Slowly  he  trod  the  long  nave  till  he  came  before 

the  high  altar, 
There    bowed    him    down    to   the  pavement,   and 

tarried  prostrate  and  silent. 

Shadows  of  morning  had  shortened  to  midday  and 

once  more  had  lengthened 
Ere  he  rose  up  from  the  stones,  that,  it  may  be,  had 

heard  his  petitions, 
God  and  they  only,  for  no  human  ear  heard  aught 

in  that  silence. 
Who  may  tell   what  were  the  thoughts  of  the  king 

in  those  hours  of  abasement  ? 


CATHEDRAL  PERSE  :-Jo 

Better  than  he  knew  no    one    the    power    of  the 

Norman  invader, 
Better  than  he  who  should  know  the  strength  or  the 

weakness  of  England  ? 
Was  it  foretold,  as  he  lay  there  in  humble,  silent 

entreaty, 
What  was  to  hap  on  the  morrow,  who  was  to  win 

in  the  conflict  ? 
Was  it  revealed  that  the  day  at  Senlac  should  be 

William's,  not  Harold's, 
Or  was  it  left  in  the  veil  of  the  future,  dark  wrapt 

from  foreknowledge  ? 
This  only  is  told  us :      That  when  the  long  vigil 

was  ended  and  Harold, 
Rising,  had  passed  down  the  nave  to  the  door  at 

the  westward,  and  turning, 
Faced  yet  again  the  high  altar,  the  great  rood  before 

it  moved  slowly, 
Leaned  itself  forward,   then  bowed  as  in  pity,  to 

Harold. 


8(5  CATHEDRAL   VERSE 

So   runs    the    legend    of  Waltham  concerning  that 

day  ere  the  battle. 
Forth  from  the  abbey  he  went  on  that  evening  in 

early  October, 
Mustered  his  legions  together  at  London  and  marched 

to  the  southward, 
On  to  the  hill  of  Senlac,  where  he  pitched  his  camp 

on  the  morrow, 
On  to  the  gloom  of  defeat  and  of  death  at  the  hands 

of  the  Norman, 
On  to  the  glory  of  death  for  the  earldom  of  Wessex 

and  England! 

This  is  the  shrine  of  his  building  :  Here  his  foot 
steps  awakened  the  echoes 

(Echoes  reverberate  still  through  eight  centuries  lost 
in  the  darkness) 

On  that  far  distant  day  when  he  moved  'mid  these 
arches  in  anguish  of  spirit. 


CATHEDRAL  VERSE  37 

IN   THE  CRYPT   AT    WINCHESTER 

DE    PROFUNDIS 

Out  of  the  deep  I  cry  to  Thee 

Who  notest  e'en  the  sparrow's  fall : 

0  Lord,  be  merciful  to  me! 

1  may  not  rise  unless  set  free 

From  burdens  that  my  soul  enthrall : 
Out  of  the  deep  I  cry  to  Thee. 

I  strive,  yet  fail,  and  seem  to  be 

The  sport  of  fate,  while  doubts  appall : 
O  Lord,  be  merciful  to  me! 

Dark  is  my  path  ;  I  may  not  see 

How  good  is  yet  the  fruit  of  all : 
Out  of  the  deep  I  cry  to  Thee. 

O  let  my  way  with  Thine  agree  ; 

(My  way,  o'erhung  as  with  a  pall :) 
O  Lord,  be  merciful  to  me  ! 

Incline  Thine  ear  unto  my  plea  ; 

Break  not  the  reed,  but  hear  my  call  : 
Out  of  the  deep  I  cry  to  Thee, 
O  Lord,  be  merciful  to  me! 


38  CATHEDRAL 

ON  A  GRAVE 
IN    CHRISTCHURCH,    HANTS 

Turning  from  Shelley's  sculptured  face  aside, 
And  pacing  thoughtfully  the  silent  aisles 
Of  the  grey  church  that  overlooks  the  smiles 
Of  the  glad  Avon  hastening  its  tide 
To  join  the  seaward-winding  Stour,  I  spied 
Close  at  my  feet  a  slab  among  the  tiles 
That  paved  the  minster,  where  the  sculptor's 

files 

Had  graven  only  "Died  of  Grief,"  beside 
The  name  of  her  who  slept  below.    Sad  Soul ! 
A  century  has  fled  since  kindly  death 

Cut   short  that  life  which  nothing  knew  but 

grief, 
And  still  your  fate  stirs  pity.      Yet  the  whole 

Wide  world  is  full  of  graves  like  yours,  for  breath 
Of  sorrow  kills  as  oft  as  frost  the  leaf. 


CATHEDRAL  FERSE  39 

MISERRIMUS 


This  is  the  sole  inscription  on  the  stone  which  covers  the 
remains  of  the  Reverend  Thomas  Morris,  in  the  north  walk  of  the 
cloisters  at  Worcester  Cathedral.  He  was  a  Minor  Canon  of  Worcester 
who  refused  to  take  the  oath  of  allegiance  to  William  III.,  and  was 
consequently  reduced  to  great  poverty.  He  died  at  the  age  of  eighty- 
eight,  and  at  his  request  this  single  word  was  placed  upon  his 
tombstone. 


"Most  wretched  one!"       No,  not  to  him  belongs 
Misery's  preeminence  in  this  sad  world's  sight 
Who  suffereth  for  conscience  and  the  right, 

As  he  deems  right.      To  him  the  scourging  thongs 

Of  adverse  fortune  and  the  countless  wrongs 
His  fellows  cast  upon  him  are  too  light 
Afflictions  to  endure  forever.      Spite 

Has  never  hushed  one  note  of  heavenly  songs. 

But  he  that  gains  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd 
For  deeds  unworthy,  hears  men  name  his  sins 

As  virtues,  and  thereof  wax  emulous, — 
He  only  that  such  shameful  honour  wins, 

(Not  this  non-juring  priest),  should  cry  aloud 
Past  hope,  "Miserrimus!     Miserrimus/ " 


40  CATHEDRAL  PERSE 

AT    THE    GRAVE    OF    JANE    CARLYLE 

HADDINGTON   ABBEY 

Here  on  your  grave  as  evening  falls, 

Sunk  'mid  the  turf  and  daisies, 
Within  these  roofless  abbey  walls, 

I  read  a  husband's  praises, 

Of  you  to  whom  in  life  he  showed 

So  little  love  and  kindness, 
But  on  your  gravestone  overflowed 

In  vain  remorse  for  blindness. 

Not  for  his  pain  my  eyes  are  wet, 

But  for  your  lot  so  bitter. 
What  is  to  me  his  weak  regret  ? 

His  silence  had  been  fitter. 


CATHEDRAL  fERSE  41 

THE  BURNING 
OF   CONRAD'S    CHOIR,  A.  D.   1174 

Gervase,   a  monk  of  Christ   Church,    Canterbury ,   speaks : 

Ninety  long  years  have  I  dwelt  here,   and   much 

have  I  seen  in  that  space. 
I   was  the  least  of  the  monks  when  first  I  came  to 

this  place. 
Now    is    there  none  in  the  convent  that  numbers 

more  years  than  I  ; 
An'  God  wills  I  may  call  them  a  hundred  before 

my  time  comes  to  die. 
I  can  remember  the  building  of  Conrad's    great, 

glorious  choir  ; 
Conrad,  the  wonderful  mason,  and,  after  Ernulphus, 

our  prior. 

Month    after    month    wrought   the  workmen,   and 

year  after  year  rang  the  blows 
Of  hammer  and  trowel  on  stonework  till  all  that 

fair  building  arose. 
When  they  had  end  King  Henry,   and  David  king 

of  the  Scots, 
Came    hither    with  bishops  in  train  each  bringing 

from  holiest  spots 
Some  priceless  relic  to  lay  in  that  mighty  cathedral 

of  ours. 


42  CATHEDRAL  PERSE 

Never    since    Solomon    hallowed    the    Temple    to 

Heavenly  Powers 
Did  mortal  behold  such  a  sight  as  I  saw  on  that  far 

distant  day 
As  twice  round  the  walls  with  loud  chanting  passed 

the  gorgeous  and  endless  array. 

Forty  years  after  I  watched  all  one  night  with  the 

rest  in  this  place, 
While  beside  us  tall  candles  threw  flickers  of  light 

on  a  murdered  man's  face. 
Becket,   our    bishop,   it    was,   by    those  knights  so 

wickedly  slain 
Just    as    the    bell    rang    for    vespers    and    we    had 

assembled  again. 
From  behind  Saint  Benedict's  altar  I  saw  the  foul 

murder  begun, 
And  there,    with  his  half-severed    arm,   fled   Grim 

when  the  murder  was  done. 
Never  thought  I  a  far  woefuller  sight  than  this  to 

behold 
Only  a  few  years  after,  ere  the  summer  had  quite 

waxen  old. 
Feeble    indeed    is   our  wisdom  and  we  know  not 

what  shall  betide. 
While  above  and  beneath  and  around  us  the  hosts 

of  Almighty  abide. 


CATHEDRAL  PERSE  43 

Midnight  had  come  and  the  prior  had  bidden  me 

watch  till  the  day, 
After  our  habit  at  Christ  Church,  where  the  bones 

of  the  great  Dunstan  lay. 
So    through    the    cloister    I   went  at  the  hour  my 

watch  should  begin 
Till   I  came  to  where  Becket  was  slain  by   those 

terrible  minions  of  sin. 
There,  as  I   stayed  for  a  moment,  to  say  a  short 

prayer  for  the  dead, 
I  saw  a  red  glow  'mid  the  arches,  and  on  through 

the  transept  I  sped 
And  up  the  long  steps  to  the  choir  :   ah,  woe  for 

the  terrible  sight! 
From  the  steps  to  the  shrine  of  Saint  Dunstan  the 

choir  was  ruddy  with  light, 
For  flames  had  curled  round  the  stalls  and  stretched 

themselves  up  to  the  roof, 
And,  e'en  as  I  gazed,  caught  the  rafters  and  roared 

as  the  sea  up  aloof. 


44  CATHEDRAL  VERSE 

They   leaped  from  one  beam  to  another,  and  the 

carven  work  melted  like  snow  ; 
They  surged  up  around  the  shrine  pillars  that  bent 

like  a  tightly  stretched  bow  ; 
And  onward  they  rolled  in  vast  billows  ;  the  place 

was  a  horror  of  fire  : 
The    holiest    spot    in    all    England,  our    Conrad's 

glorious  choir. 
Anon  came  the  prior  and  the  brothers  :   the  people 

streamed  in  through  the  nave 
And    they     looked     at    the    fiery    tempest,    and    a 

horrible  cry  they  gave 
That  rang  through  the  great  nave  arches,  and  rose 

o'er  the  dull  roar  of  flame, 
As  they  called  on  the  Lord  in  their  madness  and 

cursed  his  most  reverend  name. 
Still  the  surges  of  fire  whirled  upward  till  the  choir 

roof  crashed  to  the  floor, 
And  the  flames  mounted  up  to  the  heavens  while  the 

people  blasphemed  yet  the  more. 


CATHEDRAL  PERSE  45 

They  tore  out  their  hair  in  their  frenzy  ;  they  beat 

at  the  walls  with  their  hands, 
And  they  caught  at  the  stones  in  the  pavement  as 

the  wild  waves  clutch  at  the  sands ; 
They  dashed  their  heads  'gainst  the  pillars  till  blood 

was  sprent  over  the  space  ; 
And  they  burst  into  terrible  singing,  as  demons  had 

stood  in  their  place. 

"Now  a  curse  on  Saint  Wilfred  of  Ripon,  and  a 

curse  on  Saint  Blasius  of  Rome ! 
And  curse  upon  curse  light  on  Dunstan  ;  the  deep 

pit  of  hell  be  his  home. 
May    Saint  Ouen  lie  with  him  in  torment ;  Saint 

Swithun  be  doomed  to  despair  ; 
And  the  rest  who  are  snugly  enshrined  here  be  torn 

by  the  fiends  of  the  air. 
For  they  sleep,  and  the  glory  of  Conrad  is  past  in 

a  moment  of  time  : 
They  sleep,  and  the  enemy  cometh  and  despoileth 

the  altar  sublime. 


46  CATHEDRAL   FERSE 

"And  a  curse    upon    God    in    His    heaven,  who 

suffers  such  evils  to  be  ; 
And  curses,   too,   on  His  Son,    who    refuseth  our 

anguish  to  see  ; 
And  a  curse  on  the   Holy  Spirit,  that  to  save  lifts 

never  an  arm  ; 
And  a  thrice  bitter  curse  upon  Mary,  who  will  not 

defend  from  such  harm 
The  temple  that  Conrad  hath  builded  in  honour  of 

Jesus,  her  Son  ; 
And  curses,  too,  on  the  angels  ;   away  with  them, 

every  one! 
For  the  glory  of  Conrad  is  passing  ;  our  God  is  as 

stubble  or  stone  ; 
Let  us  turn  from  His  worship  forever,  and  bow  us 

to  Satan  alone! " 

And  now  through  the  open  choir  roof  a  wind  from 

the  seaward  there  drave 
That  lashed  the  flames  into  fury  and  swept  them 

forth  to  the  nave  ; 


CATHEDRAL  PERSE  47 

And    the    people    fled  before  them  as  chaff  when 

a  whirlwind  is  blown, 
Or  as  leaves  in  the  front  of  a  tempest  hurried  on 

betwixt  high  cliffs  of  stone. 
And    hushed  was  the  voice  of  blaspheming  while 

high  rose  the  roar  of  the  flames 
Where     the    people    had    stood    in    their    madness 

reviling  the  thrice  holy  names. 

When    the    fearsome    night   past  and  the  .morning 

shone  down  on  our  convent  once  more, 
"Ichabod,"   murmured  our  prior,    "the  glory  of 

Conrad  is  o'er  ; 
He    smiteth,    and    we     are     sore     humbled ;     He 

scourgeth  our  pride  with  His  fire  ; 
He  sendeth  His  wrath  out  amongst  us  and  abaseth 

our  glorious  choir. 
O,  who  can  fathom  His  purpose,  or  who  can  read 

straightway  His  plan  ? 
The    Lord's    ways    are    never    as    our    ways,  and 

foolish  before  Him  is  man ! ' ' 


In  the  year  1174,  the  choir  of  Canterbury  Cathedral  was  destroyed 
by  fire,  and  according  to  Gervase,  the  monkish  chronicler  of  these 
events,  and  himself  a  witness  of  what  he  describes,  "  The  people  were 
astonished  that  the  Almighty  should  suffer  such  things,  and  maddened 
with  excess  of  grief  and  perplexity,  they  tore  their  hair,  and  beat  the 
walls  and  pavement  of  the  church  with  their  hands  and  heads, 
blaspheming  the  Lord  and  His  saints,  the  patrons  of  His  church.' 


MISCELLANEOUS    VERSE 


A    WITHERED    ROSE 

These  brown,  curled  leaves  were  once  a  rose 

All  fair  and  fresh,  and  sweet  as  fair. 
Now  summer's  past,  and  winter  snows 

Have  buried  Hope  slain  by  Despair  ! 

INEVITABLE 

The  fairest  rose  that  blooms  hides  yet  a  thorn  ; 

The  dearest  friend  shall  one  day  bring  you  grief; 
In  August  twilight  is  the  winter  born, 

And  waving  wheat  precedes  the  falling  leaf. 

BLACK    ROCK,  NANTASKET 

A  huge  black  sea-shape  left  at  turn  of  tide, 

It  drags,  afar  from  shore,  its  low  gaunt  length. 

In  dateless  aeons  in  lone  waters  wide 

Was  this  some  slimy  saurian' s  league-long  strength? 


MISCELLANEOUS     VERSE  51 

DECEMBER'S    WOOING 
i. 

DECEMBER     TO    MAY 

Though  I  look  old,  love, 
I'm  young  and  bold,  love, 
When  I  see  you. 

Fain  would  I  ask,  love, 
From  you  some  task,  love, 
To  prove  this  true. 

That  done,  I'd  take,  love, 
In  payment's  sake,  love, 
This  maid  I  woo. 

ii. 

MAY    TO    DECEMBER 

Would  you,  indeed,  sir  ? 
Pray  take  good  heed,  sir, 
To  what  I  say. 

This  my  behest,  sir  : 

Cease  to  protest,  sir, 

Your  love  today. 

Ne'er  will  I  wed,  sir, 
Where  youth  is  sped,  sir, 
So  go  your  way! 


52  MISCELLANEOUS     FERSE 

REALITY 

Of  Love  the  minstrel  sang,  and  drew 
An  easy  finger  o'er  the  strings, 
Then  laughed  and  sang  of  other  things, — 

Of  grass  and  flowers  and  azure  blue. 

Of  Love  the  poet  wrote,  and  soft 

And  sweet  the  liquid  measures  flowed, 
Then  gave  his  moments  to  an  ode, 

And  crooks  and  shepherds  mentioned  oft. 

One  day  the  singer  met  with  Love, 
And  mighty  music  shook  his  strings, 
While  dreams  and  light  imaginings 

His  new-roused  spirit  soared  above. 

Love  met  the  poet  on  his  way, 
And  kindled  all  his  soul  to  fire, 
Filled  all  his  measures  with  desire, 

And  left  no  room  for  fancies-gay. 

The  minstrel  sang  to  Love  one  song, 
And  died  for  joy,  yet  lives  in  this. 
The  poet,  touched  by  Love's  warm  kiss, 

With  echoes  fills  the  ages  long. 


MISCELLANEOUS     PERSE  53 

DEAR    HEART,  BELIEVE 

Dear  heart,  believe  I  think  of  you 
When  evening  grey  shuts  out  the  blue  ; 

In  the  slow  hours  of  middle  night, 

And  when  the  lances  of  the  light 
First  thrust  the  mists  of  darkness  through. 

Nought  can  the  days  of  absence  do, 
When  faith  is  strong  and  hearts  are  true, 

To  blur  with  change  affection's  might, 

Dear  heart,  believe. 

If  sullen  death  between  us  drew 

The  veil  that  bars  from  earthly  view 

The  much  loved  face,  the  clearer  sight 
Would  still  discern  in  death's  despite. 

Beyond  the  veil  can  love  pursue, 

Dear  heart,  believe. 


54  MISCELLANEOUS     PERSE 

CAMBRIDGE 

Read  at  the  Annual   Meeting  of  the  Boston   Authors  Club. 
January   30,  1905 

Dear  city,  round  whose  marshy  rim  the  Charles 
Passes  his  steel-blue  sickle  in  slow  glee, 
And,  circling  ever,  slips  at  last  through  snarls 
Of  piers  and  bridges  to  the  expectant  sea. 

To  thee  is  turned  the  "soft  Venetian  side" 
Of  Boston.      On  thy  myriad  roofs  the  slopes 
Of  Arlington  look  down  ;  between,  a  tide 
Scholastic  ebbs  and  flows,  sun-smit  with  hopes. 

Needs  must  they  love  thee  who  may  call  thee  home, 
Whose  centuried  past  their  grateful  reverence  claims  ; 
Thy  sister  city  of  the  golden  dome 
Points  to  no  fairer  scroll  of  noble  names. 

Here  roamed  "  the  Scholar  Gypsy  "  long  ago  ; 
Here  gently  ruled  our  "New  World  Philhellene  ;  " 
Here  came  the  wanderer  from  the   Pays   de   Vaud  ; 
And  here  New  England's  Sibyl  passed  between 

The  gates  of  birth.      Here,  where   the  lilacs  hedge 
The  winding  road,  the  Gentle  Singer  told 
The  Legend  Golden  ;  and  the  murmuring  sedge 
Of  his  loved  Charles  still  with  his  name  makes  bold. 


MISCELLANEOUS     FERSE  55 

Here,  where  the  Elmwood  thickets  lift   their  pyres 
Of  green,  a  later  summons  came,  and  he, 
Our  best  and  noblest,  whose  each  word  inspires, 
Slipped  from  life's  moorings  on  a  shoreless  sea. 

Ah  me!  the  men  that  were  and  are  not  now. 
The  seasons  come  and  pass  and  bear  away 
One  after  other,  as  from  autumn  bough 
Is  swept  at  whiles  the  fruitage  of  its  May. 

O  City  of  the  Scholar!     Wider  spread 
Each  year  thy  green  elm  shades,  but  ever  keep 
In  quick  remembrance  these  thy  children,  sped 
To  some  far  country  through  strange  fields  of  sleep. 


56  MISCELLANEOUS     fERSE 

NABOTH 

Great  honour  hath  Boston,  the  city,  won  of  late  in 

a  glorious  fray 
With  a  handful  of  Portuguese  fishers  on  that  island 

just  down  in  the  bay. 
The  fishers  were  poor  and  defenceless,  the  city  was 

wealthy  and  strong, 
Hath  it  not  been  ever  from  old  time  that  the  poor  to 

the  spoiler  belong  ? 

It  is  twice  twenty  years  since  their  fathers  in  the  lap 

of  a  favouring  breeze 
Put  out  from  the  far  Western  Islands  and  hitherward 

sailed  over  seas. 
The  islands  of  summer  to  rearward  sank  slowly  from 

sight  in  the  wave, 
As  they  spread  out  their  sails  to  the  sunshine  and 

swift  through  the  water  they  drave. 
And  they  came,  after  many  days'  sailing,  to  a  sea- 
fronting,  sand-girted  town, 
With  a  fringe  of  white  sand  dunes  to  northward  and 

southward  the  fishing  smacks  brown, 
That  lies  at  the  end  of  a  sea-daring,  sea-cleaving 

spear  of  the  land, 
And  after  long  tossing  on  billows  it   was  good  in 

that  fair  town  to  stand. 


MISCELLANEOUS     FERSE  57 

And  some  of  them  said,  "  We  will  dwell  here,  nor 

seek  otherwhere  for  a  home," 
But  the  rest  were  not  of  this  liking,  and  once  again 

sped  o'er  the  foam 
Till    they    came    to    the    harbour    of  Boston,    and 

arrived  there  in  sight  of  the  town, 
They  brought  their  staunch  vessel  to  anchor  in  the 

lee  of  a  yellow  cliff's  frown. 
A  long,   narrow  isle  was  before  them,   and    on   it 

they  landed  that  day, 
And  built  them  rude  huts  by  the  sea  beach,  where 

the  women  and  children  might  stay. 

And  the  busy  years  past  and  they  prospered,  these 

fishers  from  over  the  main, 
Till  the  elder  men  died  and  were  buried,  and  over 

their  labour  and  pain, 
But  their  children  remained  on  Long  Island,   and 

followed  a  sea-faring  life, 
As  their  fathers  before  them,  in  peace,  with  never 

the  murmurs  of  strife, 
Till  Boston,  the  city,  grew  jealous,  like  Ahab,  the 

the  ruler,  of  old, 
When  he  longed  for  the  vineyard  of  Naboth,  which 

he  from  his  gates  could  behold. 
No  vineyard  was  this  on   Long  Island,  but  a  few 

scanty  acres  of  beach, 


58  MISCELLANEOUS     FERSE 

Yet    even    there    did  the  city  her  covetous  fingers 

outreach. 
Though  the  fishermen  begged  for  their  homesteads, 

the  strong  city  answered  them  "Nay," 
For  she  wanted,  in  spite  of  her  riches,  those  few 

acres  just  down  in  the  bay. 
So  she  gathered  together  her  servants  and  sent  them 

to  Long  Island  strand, 
And  they    tore    down    the    fisher-folk    homes    and 

strewed  the  wreck  over  the  land, 
While  the  Portuguese   women  bewailed  them,  but 

their  husbands  stood  sullen  aside 
And  wondered  that  God  in  the  heavens  could  the 

wrongs  of  His  servants  abide. 
Thus  the  work  of  destruction  went  onward,  while  a 

cloud  of  dust  covered  the  place 
Where    the    men    from    the     distant     Azores     had 

nourished  a  peace-loving  race, 
Till  the  grey  of  the  long  August  twilight  came  down 

on  that  isle  in  the  sea 
And  covered  the    work    of  the    spoilers,   and    the 

morrow  was  yet  to  be. 
Then  the  masterful  foemen  of  Boston  shame-facedly 

hurried  away, 
While  the  curses  of  those  they  had  plundered  rang 

after  them  over  the  bav 


MISCELLANEOUS     FERSE  59 

As  they  ring  in  the  ears  of  Almighty  who  bringeth 

the  strongest  to  shame, 
Who  heedeth  the  griefs  of  the  humble  and  divideth 

the  praise  from  the  blame. 
But  His  ways  are  still  hid  in  the  future  and  the  city 

is  great  in  her  pride, 
And  the  men    in    her    fair    council    chambers    the 

Portuguese  fishers  deride  ; 
And  still  in  the  streets  of  the  city  the  deed  of  those 

foemen  they  praise, 
Who  drave  from  Long  Island  the  fishers  on  those 

sunshiny  midsummer  days. 

Thus    honour    abundant    did    Boston    achieve  in  a 

glorious  fray 
With  a  handful  of  Portuguese  fishers  on   that  island 

just  down  in  the  bay. 
And  so  long  as  the  church-bells  of  Boston  ring  out 

from  her  myriad  towers, 
So  long  will  the  praises  be  chanted  of  these  valorous 

foemen  of  ours 
Who  divided  in  sunder  the  roof-trees  that  sheltered 

a  peace-loving    folk, 
Who  shattered  in  fragments  their  hearth-stones  and 

quenched  forever  their  smoke. 

1887 


60  MISCELLANEOUS     PERSE 

ON    TRURO    MOORS 

O  friend  of  mine,  so  dear  to  me, 

Forget  not  yet  those  summer  hours 
On  Truro  moors  beside  the  sea. 

O'er  rolling  downs  we  roamed  in  glee 

To  where  the  tall  white  lighthouse  towers, 
O  friend  of  mine,  so  dear  to  me. 

On  those  high  cliffs  1  sat  with  thee, 

When  clinging  sea-fog  spilt  slow  showers, 
On  Truro  moors  beside  the  sea. 

Fair  hopes  we  had  for  days  to  be, 

We  said  high  purpose  should  be  ours, 
O  friend  of  mine,  so  dear  to  me. 

In  sun  or  cloud  we  paced  that  lea 

Elate  with  all  that  friendship  dowers, 
On  Truro  moors  beside  the  sea. 

Ah !  far-off  week  from  care  so  free 

(Time  from  its  span  no  charm   deflowers, 
O  friend  of  mine,  so  dear  to  me) 

On  Truro  moors  beside  the  sea. 


MISCELLANEOUS     fERSE  61 

AT    PARTING 

With  eyes  in  which  there  gleamed  a  tear, 

And  voice  whose  syllables  were  broken, 

She  stood  aghast  in  sudden  fear. 

With  eyes  in  which  there  gleamed  a  tear, 

She  gazed  at  him  who  loved  her  dear, 

And  left  the  farewell  half  unspoken, 

With  eyes  in  which  there  gleamed  a  tear, 

And  voice  whose  syllables  were  broken. 

For  soon  would  seas  between  them  roll, 
And  half  the  world  its  distance  sever. 

How  should  content  possess  her  soul 

When  seas  would  soon  between  them  roll  ? 

Then  round  her  waist  his  strong  arm  stole — 

"Dear  heart,"  he  said,  "my  love  dies  never, 

Though  seas  will  soon  between  us  roll 

And  half  the  world  its  distance  sever." 


62  MISCELLANEOUS     FERSE 

UT    QUID    DOMINE 

PSALM    X. 

Why  standest  Thou  from  us  afar, 
O  Lord  ?  Why  hidest  Thy  face  ? 

In  need  and  sore  trouble  we  are. 

Why  standest  Thou  from  us  afar, 

When  the  wicked  the  poor  doth  debar 
From  his  right,  and  debase  ? 

Why  standest  Thou  from  us  afar, 
O  Lord  ?  Why  hidest  Thy  face  ? 

The  wicked  hath  said  in  his  heart 
That  his  glory  shall  never  be  less. 

"With  defeat  I  shall  never  have  part," 

The  wicked  hath  said  in  his  heart  ; 

So  the  poor  he  maketh  to  smart, 
And  seeketh  his  goods  to  possess. 

The  wicked  hath  said  in  his  heart 
That  his  glory  shall  never  be  less. 

"  For  God  hath  forgotten,"  he  cries  ; 

"The  Lord  hath  forgotten  the  poor!" 
With  his  tongue  he  uttereth  lies  : 
"For  God  hath  forgotten,"  he  cries. 


MISCELLANEOUS     fERSE  63 

He  lieth  in  wait  in  disguise 

That  his  deeds  may  be  secret  and  sure. 
"  For  God  hath  forgotten,"  he  cries  ; 

"  The  Lord  hath  forgotten  the  poor!  " 

Most  surely,  O  Lord,  hast  Thou  known  ; 

For  Thou  seest  all  sorrow  and  wrong  ; 
The  friendless  Thou  helpest  alone. 
Most  surely,  O  Lord,  hast  Thou  known 
That  the  wicked  so  mighty  are  grown  ; 

And  to  Thee  we  lift  up  our  song. 
Most  surely,  O  Lord,  hast  Thou  known  ; 

For  Thou  seest  all  sorrow  and  wrong. 

O  Lord,  Thou  hast  heard  our  desire, — 
Incline  Thou  Thine  ear  to  our  prayer  : 

Let  the  wicked  no  longer  conspire. 

O  Lord,  Thou  hast  heard  our  desire, — 

Lift  us  up  from  the  clay  and  the  mire, 
And  our  hearts  in  Thy  mercy  prepare. 

O  Lord,  Thou  hast  heard  our  desire, — 
Incline  Thou  Thine  ear  to  our  prayer. 


64  MISCELLANEOUS     fERSE 

O    FRIEND    ESTRANGED 

O  friend  estranged,  whose  love,  now  cold, 
Once  warmed  my  heart  with  bliss  untold, 

How  near  we  were,  now  sundered  far! 

What  fate  perverse  did  forge  the  bar 
That  holds  apart  the  friends  of  old  ? 

Do  you  forget  how  o'er  us  rolled 
The  tides  of  feeling  uncontrolled, 

Before  your  love  knew  wound  or  scar, 

O  friend  estranged  ? 

When  first  your  hand-clasp  loosed  its  hold, 
And  dark  mistrust,  grown  over-bold, 

Crept  in,  your  faith  to  blur  and  mar, 

Did  not  your  spirit  feel  the  jar 
Preluding  friendship's  death-knell  knolled, 

O  friend  estranged  ? 


MISCELLANE  0  US     VERSE 

THE   ARTIST'S    LAST   PICTURE 

Upon  the  painter's  easel  stands 
The  latest  picture  from  his  hands. 
The  canvas  shows  a  sunset  glow 
Reflected  in  the  lake  below, 
While  mountains  farther  from  the  sight 
Have  caught  the  day's  departing  light, 
And  autumn's  tints  upon  the  leaves 
Are  paled  by  these  the  sunset  weaves. 

Oh,  nevermore  that  rosy  sky 
Will  darken  as  the  moments  fly  ; 
Or  colour  fade  from  off"  the  lake, 
Or  mount  a  duller  tint  will  take. 
The  glories  of  the  lingering  day 
Are  on  that  canvas  fixed  for  aye! 

The  hand  that  laid  those  colours  fair, 
The  brain  that  schemed  to  set  them  there, 
Have  no  more  work,  meseems,  to  do, 
For  both  are  still ;  the  palette,  too, 
Hangs  idly  from  its  peg ;  and  o'er 
The  box  of  pigments  on  the  floor 
The  spider  throws  her  web.      The  sun 
That  glittered  while  the  work  was  done, 
Has  set  in  night  for  him  who  made 
This  canvas  fair  with  light  and  shade  ; 


66  MISCELLANEOUS     PERSE 

For  ere  these  glowing  hues  were  dry 
He  turned  him  from  his  task  to  die. 

Ah!  not  in  night  his  day  declined  ; 
Not  thus  the  spirit  saith.      The  mind 
That  thought,  the  brain  that  willed, 
Are  with  diviner  cunning  skilled, 
And  somewhere  out  of"  earthly  sight 
The  artist  is,  and  morning  light 
Illumes  his  canvas :  through  his  soul 
The  harmonies  of  heaven  roll, 
And  mortal  sunsets  to  him  seem 
But  as  some  faintly-outlined  dream 
Recalled  in  brightest  mid-day  gleam. 


MISCELLANEOUS     PERSE 

"IN    PEACE    AND    QUIETNESS" 

A  silver  tide, 

The  waters  glide, 
And  round  the  feet  of  mountains  slide, 

O'er  whose  high  steep 

The  moonbeams  peep, 
And  on  through  winding  valleys  keep. 

'Mid  craggy  walls, 

Where  alway  calls 
The  voice  of  many  waterfalls, 

A  castle  stands, 

Whence  robber  bands 
Once  ravaged  all  the  neighbour  lands. 

Their  fierce  alarms, 

Their  clang  of  arms, 
Rang  o'er  the  peasants'  wasted  farms  ; 

And  city  streets 

Heard  their  hoof  beats, 
Beheld  the  keeping  of  their  leets. 


68  MISCELLANEOUS     PERSE 

Their  riot  fills 

No  more  the  hills, 
And  stirs  a  myriad  mortal  ills. 

Their  day  is  done, 

Their  course  long  run, 
And  memory  fain  their  names  would  shun. 

Along  these  slopes 

With  nature  copes 
The  peasant,  scattering  seed  in  hopes. 

The  fig  and  vine 

Their  boughs  entwine  ; 
The  valleys  sing  with  corn  and  wine. 

In  summer  days 

A  golden  haze 
Hides  mount  and  river  in  its  maze  ; 

In  summer  eves 

The  moonlight  weaves 
A  shimmering  splendour  of  the  leaves, 

Or  silver  lights, 

On  autumn   nights, 
It  scatters  where  no  foe  affrights ; 

While  softly  there 

The  call  of  prayer 
Floats  forth  upon  the  peaceful  air. 


MISCELLANEOUS     PERSE  69 

IN   THE    LIBRARY    AT    ELMWOOD 

These  are  the  friends  whom  he  loved  :   these  books 

that  reveal  on  their  pages 
Pencilled  marks  of  approval,    as  one  claps  a  friend 

on  the  shoulder 
Who  has  uttered  a  witty  or  wise  thing.      These  are 

the  friends  he  loved  best, 
And  he  knew  them  as  one  knows  a  brother.      Now 

they  look  down  from  their  places, 
At  evening  and  morning  and  mid-day,  and  mourn 

his  untimely  departure. 
Many    a  time  on  their  leaves  has  his  white  hand 

lovingly  rested  ; 
Many  a  time  has  he  gone  to  these  friends  for  their 

generous  counsel ; 
Often    and    often    have    they    and    the  poet  made 

merry  together. 


70  MISCELLANEOUS     I'ERSE 

Now  the  sweet  converse  has  past,  and  the  glow  oi 

the  fire  on  the  hearthstone 
Flashes  across  the  dark  faces  that  leaned  from  the 

shelves  to  speak  to  him 
In  accents  that  he  understood  whatever  the  tongue 

that  was  spoken  ; 
Gleams  on  the  papers  that  lie  on  the  stand  where 

he  carelessly  tossed  them  ; 
Glitters  on  ceiling  and  walls  but  no  longer  discovers 

the  presence, 
Gracious  and  courteous  ever,   that  once  made  the 

scholar's  apartment 
Seem  like  the  throne  of  a  king  when  he  sat  there  by 

such  friends  surrounded. 

1891 


MISCELLANEOUS      FERSE  71 

HULL 

Low  leagues  of  coast  dunes  bending  to  the  west 
Are  tremulous  with  waving  beach  grass  green, 
Or  all  aglare  with  shifting  sands  that,  seen 

At  midday,  show  their  arid  whiteness  best. 

At  farthest  end  start  up,  as  if  to  breast 

The  ocean's  might,  low  rounded  hills  that  lean 
Their  turfed  slopes  to  the  sun,  and  in  between 

These  swelling  downs  a  road  winds,  all  unguessed 

Till  near,  and  fringed  with  homely  farmsteads  like 
Some  country  lane  with  honest  country  bloom. 
The  murmurs  of  the  sea  seemlTaint  and  far 

Though  close  beside.  All  summer  sounds  that  strike 
The  ear  bring  peace.  All  winds  waft  blent 

perfume 
Of  sea  and  meadow  through  the  village  quaint. 


72  MISCELLANEOUS     VERSE 

WHICH 

O  which  were  best,  and  who  would  dare  to  choose 
Between  the  friend  who  holds  you  as  his  life, 
Counting  all  effort  useless  if  his  strife 

Win  from  you  no  fond  word  —  content  to  lose 

All  else  but  you  —  or  him  you  know  no  ruse 
Of  time  can  part  your  soul  from,  and  no  knife 
Of  fate  dissever,  though  all  tongues  were  rife 

With  tales  of  slander  his  fair  fame  to  bruise  ? 

O  which  were  best  ?  To  give  or  to  receive  ? 
To  love,  or  to  be  loved  ?  To  take  alway, 
Or  stand  with  gifts  of  love  before  the  gate 

Of  one  beloved  ?      Oh !  curious  heart,  believe 

All  love  wins  love,  and  choice  were  foolish  play 
In  this.      The  twain  are  one,  or  soon  or  late. 


MISCELLANEOUS     FERSE  73 

WHAT    CAN    DREAR    DECEMBER    SAY? 

What  can  drear  December  say 

That  should  make  our  souls  rejoice  ? 
Fields  are  white  and  skies  are  grey  ; 

Winter  speaks  with  sternest  voice. 
Summer's  gone  far  over  seas  ; 

Scent  and  sweetness  all  are  fled  ; 
Every  southward  sweeping  breeze 

Wails  a  dirge  for  summer  dead. 
Hearts  are  numb  with  nameless  pain, 

For  the  year  is  near  its  death  : 
"Joy  once  past  comes  not  again," 

To  itself  the  sad  soul  saith. 
This  is  what  December  says, 

Heard  through  snows  and  flying  sleet  : 
"  Even  in  my  shortening  days 

Still  abide  presagings  sweet 
Of  the  pleasant  time  to  be. 

In  my  woods  the  hazel  swells  ; 
Under  snows  who  looks  may  see 

Epigsea's  rose  tinged  bells. 
All  the  blasts  in  fury  reeling 

Cannot  quench  my  Christmas  light. 
Heart,  look  up!      One  came  with  healing 

On  a  dark  December  night." 


74  MISCELLANEOUS     VERSE 

HORATIO    NELSON    POWERS 

1826-1890 

Death  hath  no  power  o'er  such  as  he  ; 
The  fulness  of  the  life  to  be 
Shone  round  him  in  the  life  he  spent 
Within  this  mortal  prison  pent. 
Texts  might  we  gather  from  his  looks 
Such  as  men  read  in  holy  books, 
And  in  his  speech  could  hear  at  will 
The  Master's  gracious  accents  still. 


A    MEMORY    AT    CHRISTMASTIDE 

Again  the  snows,  the  Christmas  carols  sweet  ; 

Again  the  days  so  full  of  Christmas  cheer. 

Ah  me!  the  friend  who  spoke  with  me  last   year, 
And  warmed  my  very  heart  with  love's  glad  heat 
Lies  now  where  fall  the  winter  snow  and  sleet, 

And  I,  who  held  him  past  all  others  dear 

And  counted  every  hour  without  him  drear, 
No  more  shall  list  the  coming  of  his  feet. 


MISCELLANEOUS    PERSE  75 

LOVE  IS  SO  SWEET 

Love  is  so  sweet,  but  he  seldom  stays  long  : 
(  Roses  of  June  are  gone  ere  July. ) 

Love  is  so  sweet,  but  brief  ia  his  song  : 
(Roses  of  June  on  the  first  winds  fy.) 

Love  is  so  sweet,  but  he  leaves  a  pain  : 

(Roses  of  June  have  a  thorn  ' neath  them  all.) 

Love  is  so  sweet,  but  he  comes  not  again  : 
(Roses  of  Juue  must  wither  and  fall.) 

Love  was  so  sweet,  but  his  day  is  past  : 
(Roses  lie  deep  'neath  December  snows.) 

Love  was  so  sweet,  but  he  fled  so  fast  ; 

(  Roses  are  done  when  the  summer-time  goes. ) 


76  MISCELLANEOUS     t^ERSE 

BEFORE  THE  GATE  OF  STORMS 

Before  the  gate  of  storms  two  dim  shapes  met  : 
(Cold  are  the  wind?,  when  December  flies  ;^) 

The  one  was  robed  in  weeds  of  sad  regret, 
But  saw  the  shining  of  the  other's  eyes. 

Then  he  who  wore  the  seal  of  sorrows  great  : 
(  Dark  are  the  nights  when  December  goes  ; ) 

"Alas  !  who  art  thou,  that  with  face  elate 
Peerest  so  eagerly  through  whirling  snows?" 

Clear  rang  the  other's  answer  in  his  ear  : 

(Crisp  are  the  snows  when  December  speeds;} 

"  I  am  the  spirit  of  the  coming  year  ; 

My  name  is  Hope,  and  always  hope  succeeds." 

Slow  turned  the  sad  one  from  before  the  gate  : 
(  Shadows  are  black  when  December  parts  ;  ) 

**O  eager  one,  within  the  future  wait 

Thy  coming,  pain  and  woe  and  broken  hearts. 

I  am  the  spirit  of  the  going  year  ; 

(Sao1  are  the  hours  when  December  flies ,-) 
My  name  is  Loss,  and  me  all  men  do  fear, 

For  in  my  bosom  twelve  months'  anguish  lies  !  " 


MISCELLANEOUS    FERSE  77 

AT    BAY 

This  the  end,  then,  of  striving  ;  this  is  what  comes 

of  it  all  ; 
Darkness  and  foes  just    behind    one ;    before,    an 

impassable  wall. 
What  does  it  matter  how  staunchly  one  may  have 

battled  for  truth, 
When  with  his  weapons  all  broken  he  sits  by  the 

grave  of  his  youth  ? 
What  did  it  profit  in  past  years  that  one  did  the  best 

that  one  knew, 
When  in  the  gloom  of  the  present,  virtue  herself 

seems  untrue  ? 
Why    should  one  fight  any  longer  when  nothing 

remains  but  defeat  ? 
Surely  such  labour  were  useless,  and  idle  the  stirring 

of  feet. 

Ah  !  but  the  soul  that  is  faithful  knows  it  is  well 

to  have  fought  ; 
Knows  it  is  good  to  have  acted,  whatever  the  doing 

has  brought. 
This  is  the  crown  of  the   conflict,  this  the  reward 

of  all  strife, — 
Faith  in  one's  self  and  one's  motives,  no  matter  how 

darkened  the  life. 


78  MISCELLANEOUS    fERSE 

Flesh  may  be  bruised  and  defeated,   but  spirit    is 

never  disgraced  ; 
Spirit  is  always  triumphant,  whatever  sharp  pain  it 

it  has  faced. 

Here,  at  the  end  of  my  conflict,  I  counsel  not  yet 

with  dispair, 
Though  to  all  seeming  my  struggles  are  his  who  but 

beateth  the  air. 
Darkness  and  foes  are  about  me,  yet  I   stand  with 

my  back  to  the  wall, 
Facing  whatever  Fate  sends  me,   and  facing  Fate 

thus  I  shall  fall  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    f^ERSE  79 

A    LAGGARD    SPRING 

The  winter  tarried  and  the  spring  was  late, 

And  still  from  wild  waste  lands  to  northward  blew 

The  gale  that  stiffened  nightly  all  the  brooks 

Which  fed  the  rivers  flowing  past  the  cliffs 

Of  lonely  cloud-swept  mountains  to  the  sea  ; 

And  all  the  people  wearied  of  the  cold, 

And  all  the  fields  were  crying  for  the  sun. 

But  when  the  mid-March  weeks  were  past  there 

came 

A  wind  from  southern  lands  that  vanquished  quite 
The  hosts  of  winter.      All  its  snows  rushed  down 
In  stormful  spates,  to  spread  themselves  upon 
The  level  meads  that  lay  beside  the  streams 
That  in  the  summer  shrank  to  silver  threads 
Or  lost  themselves  amid  the  green,  but  now 
Were  one  wide  water,  for  the  spring  had  come! 


POST- LAUREATE  IDYLLS 


(SECOND    SERIES) 


THE    PLEADING    OF   DAGONET 

ARGUMENT 

The  King  of  Sfades, 

He  iiss'd  the  maids, 
Which  vex'd  the  Queen  full  sore. 

The  Queen  of  Sfades, 

She  beat  those  maids, 
And  turn' d  them  out  of  door. 

The  Knave  of  Sfades 

Grieved  for  those  jades, 
And  did  fur  them  implore. 

The  Queen  so  gent, 

She  did  relent, 
And  vow^d  she'd  ne'er  strike  more, 

The  time  had  come  when  slowly-dying  Rome, 
Feeling  the  death-chill  creeping  near  her  heart, 
Call'd  all  the  legions  home  from  far-off  lands 
That  haply  they  might  save  the  life  of  her 
Who  once  was  nam'd  the  mistress  of  the  world. 
So  they,  home  summon' d,  swarm' d  from  over  seas, 
Climb' d  Alps  or  cross' d    the    drifting    sands    that 

stretch' d 

Between  them  and  the  much-lov'd  mother  land, 
And  left  their  hard-won  conquests  to  their  fate, 
An  easy  prey  to  lustful  heathen  hosts. 
And  bitter  was  the  lot  of  Britain's  isle, 


84  POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS 

Deserted  by  the  legions  seeking  Rome, 
Till  Arthur  came  and  drave  the  heathen  back 
That  swept  from  out  the  North,  and  made  secure 
A  realm  of  peace  and  reign' d  there  as  its  king. 

But  ere  such  happy  ending  had  been  reach'd, 
The  land  was  torn  with  battle,  and  the  streams 
Ran  blood,  and  all  the  fertile  fields  were  waste, 
For  none  were  had  to  till,  and  all  the  isle 
Seem'd  likelier  to  be  the  home  of  beasts 
Than  quiet  kingdom  of  a  peaceful  king. 
And  once  eleven  fierce  and  wolfish  kings 
'Gainst  Arthur  join'd  their  strengths  and  prest 

him  sore 

And  gave  his  armed  men  no  rest  by  night 
Or  day,  and  truly,  as  it  seem'd,  the  light 
Of  Christ  had  been  extinguish'd  in  the  isle, 
Had  Arthur  sent  not  out  a  cry  for  help 
That  rang  across  the  straits  and  echo  found 
In  wave-beat  Brittany  and  and  distant  Gaul. 
King  Ban  of  Benwick — counted  bravest  knight 
In  all  the  world,  had  not  his  brother  king 
And  brother  in  the  flesh,  Bors,  King  of  Gaul, 
Been  reckon' d  equal  in  men's  sight — first  heard 
The  cry,  and  sent  a  messenger  to  Bors 
To  bid  him  arm  his  hosts  and  speed  with  him 
To  aid  the  king  of  Britain  in  his  need. 


POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS  85 

So  these  twain,  Ban  of  Benwick,  Bors  of  Gaul, 
Past  o'er  the  straits  and  sprang  to  Arthur's  help, 
And  all  the  might  of  the  eleven  kings 
Was  broken,  and  themselves  were  slain,  and  none 
Were  left  who  own'd  not  Arthur  for  their  lord. 

Now  when  the  powers  of  the  eleven  kings 

Were  scatter' d,  and  the  noise  of  battle  ceas'd 

King  Ban  of  Benwick,  with  his  brother  Bors, 

Laden  with  Arthur's  many  grateful  gifts, 

Again  past  over  straits  each  to  his  realm. 

A  wifeless  palace  was  the  home  of  Bors, 

But  Ban  was  wedded  unto  Margaret, 

A  peasant's  daughter  who  her  first  estate 

Had  long  ere  this  forgot,  and  fair  was  she 

As  many  women  are,  yet  not  so  fair 

But  there  were  those  with  whom  her  face  compar'd 

As  canker  in  the  hedge  to  garden  rose, 

Or  moonlight  unto  dazzling  ray  of  sun  ; 

And  this  she  knew,  and  rag'd  for  jealousy 

Within  when  women  fairer  than  herself 

Caught  even  a  passing  glance  from  Ban,  her  lord. 

Now  when  King  Ban  return' d  from  Britain's  isle, 
His  dark  face  darker  yet  from  sun  and  wind 
Than  when  he  left  his  realm  at  Arthur's  need, 
It  chanc'd  that  in  the  tale  of  those  who  serv'd 


86  POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS 

Within  the  palace  were  two  lately  come, 

Sisters  in  blood,  in  age  the  same,  and  fair 

To  look  upon  as  sunlight  on  gold  waves 

Of  crinkling  wheat.       Not  yet  Queen  Margaret 

Was  'ware  that  they  were  of  her  retinue, 

And  therefore  was  it  that  Ban  saw  them  first. 

The  time  was  summer,  and  a  morn  of    June 

Made  music  in  the  veins,  the  scent  of  flowers 

Past  down  the  breeze  ;  the  birds  for  very  joy 

Stopt  in  their  songs  to  circle  in  mid  air, 

Began  once  more  and  once  more  broke  the  strain 

For  gladness'  sake,  so  full  their  happy  hearts, 

While  joy  and  summer  reign' d  o'er  all  the  world. 

It  was  the  morning  of  a  royal  hunt, 

And  Ban  the  King,  array 'd  as  for  the  chase, 

Was  passing  hastily  to  palace  hall, 

To  join  his  knights  and  squires  who  stay'd  him  there, 

When  sudden  music  checkt  his  kingly  haste, 

And  leaning  from  a  window  that  o'erlookt 

The  palace  court,  he  saw  the  sisters  twain 

At  work  and  singing,  like  the  birds,  for  joy. 

No  man  but  might  not  at  that  sight  have  felt 

His  heart  beat  quicker,  were  he  old  or  young  ; 

And  all  forgetting  those  his  waiting  knights, 

Ban,  being  human,  stay'd  to  gaze  and  list. 

It  was  a  simple  song  they  sang,  of  joy 

And  dole,  and  ever  as  one  sister  paus'd, 


POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS  87 

The  other  caught  the  music's  flying  thread 

And  answer' d  her,  and  these  the  words  they  sang :  — 

"  In  life  and  love,  if  love  in  life  be  ours, 
Smiling  and  weeping  ne'er  were  equal  powers  ; 
Yet  smiles  thro'  tears  are  sweetest  smiles  of  alL 

"It  is  the  little  tear  that  smiles  confute, 
That  soon  or  late  makes  lovers'  voices  mute, 
Yet  ever  gathering  surely  saddens  all. 

"It  is  the  little  tear  no  smiles  refute, 
Or  fleeting  smiles  of  joy  all  destitute, 

That  in  the  heart's  life  surely  saddens  all. 

"  Love  is  not  worth  your  weeping  :  let  it  go. 
Ah,  is  it  ?     Tell  me,  dearest,  is  it  so  ? 
Dear  love  is  richest  when  'tis  all  in  all." 

Sweet  were  the  voices  of  the  sisters  fair, 
And  he  who  listen' d  might  not  say  which  voice 
Had  most  of  music  in  it,  more  than  might 
One  hark'ning  to  two  nightingales  that  sing 
Out  of  their  full  hearts  in  a  moonlit  night, 
All  blossom-scented,  of  the  waning  May. 
So,  with  the  music  ringing  in  his  ears, 
King  Ban  past  down  the  stairway  to  the  court  ; 
But  ere  he  came  within  the  sisters'  sight, 
One  of  the  twain  had  taken  up  the  song 


88  POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS 

Again,  and  intermingling  with  the  words, 
And  like  a  buttress  to  some  lofty  wall, 
There  ran  along  beside  the  singer's  notes 
Her  sister's  murmurous  monotones  of  song, 

"  My  life,  once  mine,  now  thine,  is  surelier  mine, 
For  love,  if  love  be  thine,  such  love  were  mine, 
And  death,  if  death  be  thine,  that  death  were  mine, 
Dear  love  is  richest  when  'tis  all  in  all." 

The  song  was  ended  and  the  maids  arose, 
And  rising  turn'd,  and  turning  saw  the  King. 
Then  on  the  cheek  of  either  flusht  the  white 
To  red  that  slowly  pal'd  again  to  white, 
And  flee  they  might  not,  rooted  there  by  fear. 
Then  he,  who  saw  their  fear  and  sought  to  calm, 
Said  gently  :  — 

"  Maids,  I  pray  you,  be  of  cheer, 
Such  songs  as  yours  are  sweet  unto  mine  ears, 
And  therefore  make  I  payment  in  such  wise 
As  best  beseems  a  king  when  maids  are  fair." 
So  saying,  Ban  of  Benwick  stoopt  and  kiss'd 
The  rounded  cheeks  that  seem'd  for  kisses  made, 
So  like  the  peach-bloom  in  their  tenderness, 
Then  lightly  turn'd  away  to  join  his  knights, 
His  lips  still  playing  with  the  song's  refrain, 
"  Dear  love  is  richest  when  'tis  all  in  all." 


POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS  89 

Scarce  had  the  echo  of  his  footsteps  died, 
And  still  the  wonder  linger' d  in  the  eyes 
Of  these  King  Ban  had  kiss'd,  when  Margaret, 
The  Queen,  swept  down  upon  the  sisters  twain  ; 
For  she  from  out  her  bower  had  seen  the  King 
Salute  the  maids,  and  like  an  angry  sea 
Her  rising  tide  of  temper  swell' d  and  surg'd, 
To  break  in  fury  on  the  heads  of  these. 
No  word  spake  Margaret,  but  with  a  hand 
Made  hard  by  anger  smote  the  maids  on  arm 
And  shoulder,  and  full  harshly  drave  them  forth 
From  palace  doors,  and  all  in  dole  they  went. 

Now  in  the  palace  of  King  Ban  was  there 

A  bitter-tongued  yet  not  unkindly  dwarf, 

Dark-haired  and  swart  of  hue,  one  Dagonet, 

Who  oft  at  royal  banquets  flasht  his  wit 

Like  nimble  lightnings  thro'  the  heavy  clouds 

Of  dullness  that  opprest  the  wine-soakt  brains 

And  chase-worn  limbs  of  stalwart  squires  and  knights, 

And  he  returning  from  some  trifling  quest 

Beheld  the  weeping  damsels  driven  forth, 

And  in  a  moment's  space  had  guess' d  the  cause, 

While  all  his  heart  was  mov'd  and  pitiful. 

But  these  on  whom  the  anger  of  the  Queen 

Had  fallen  heavily  beheld  him  not 

Thro'  mists  of  tears  till  he  full  kindly  spoke 


'JO  POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS 

And  question' d  of  their  grief,  and  so  drew  forth 
In  fragments,  marr'd  with  many  sobs  and  tears, 
Their  woful  tale.      This  heard,  Sir  Dagonet, 
Eying  them  tenderly  as  mothers  eye 
A  child  heart-broken  for  some  pleasure  lost, 
Shook  merrily  his  cap  and  bells,  and  made 
Some  jest  that  brought  the  laughter  to  their  lips, 
And  gave  thereafter  counsel  they  should  bide 
Nigh  to  the  palace  till  the  queen  had  ruth. 
Then  Dagonet  made  haste  and  sought  and  found 
The  Queen,  and  shaking  gleefully  his  bells 
Broke  into  sudden  laughter.      Then  the  Queen  : 
' '  Why  laugh  you  now,  Sir  Fool  ? ' ' 

And  quickly  came 

The  answer  back,    "  I  laugh,  good  mistress  fool, 
To  think  a  queen  should  be  a  woman  too." 
Then  Margaret,  starting  quick  aside  as  one 
Who  finds  a  stinging  insect  on  his  arm 
And  would  be  freed  from  it,  said  scornfully, 
"Why  call  me  'fool'  ?      I  am  no  kin  of  thine." 
"Thou  art  my  sister  fool,"  quoth  Dagonet, 
"  For  Queens  are  gracious  unto  all  that  live, 
But  baser  women  know  no  note  but  hate 
To  sound  in  presence  of  their  waiting  maids 
Who  win  a  fleeting  favour  from  their  lord. 
And  therefore  do  I  call  thee  sister  fool, 
And  therefore  is  it  that  I  laugh  so  loud." 


POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS  91 

When  Dagonet  had  ceas'd,  a  silence  came 

Upon  the  jester  and  the  jealous  Queen, 

And  either  fear'd  to  speak  :   the  one  for  shame 

That  she,  a  Queen,  had  so  her  state  forgot 

And  beaten  cruelly  two  harmless  maids 

For  no  fault  greater  than  a  simple  song, 

The  other  doubtful  if  his  words  were  wise. 

But  ere  the  shadow  of  the  dial  mov'd 

A  hair's-breadth  onward  toward  the  close  of  day, 

The  dwarf  found  voice  again  andbegg'dthe  Queen 

To  pity  those  her  wrath  had  driven  forth  ; 

And  mov'd  by  pleadings  of  the  sharp  tongued  dwarf, 

Or  by  repentant  working  of  her  soul, 

The  Queen  melted  to  pity  and  the  maids 

Forgave,  and  in  the  rush  of  feeling  vow'd 

Her  hand  should  ne'er  strike  more.      Thus  Dagonet 

O'ercame  the  wrath  of  Margaret  and  saw 

The  maids  restor'd,  and  in  the  next  year  went 

As  sign  of  friendly  bonds  between  the  kings 

To  dwell  at  Arthur's  court  in  Camelot. 


92  POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS 

THE    VISION    OF    SIR  LIONEL 

ARGUMENT 
"  There  were  three  sisters  in  a  hall, 

1  Good-morrow,  aunt,'   to  the  one, 

'  Good-morrow,  aunt,'   to  the  other, 

' Good-morrow,  gentlewoman,'  to  the  third. 

'  If  you  were  my  aunt 

As  the  other  two  be, 
I  would  say  good-morrow 

Then,  aunts  all  three.'  " 

Sir  Launcelot  had  fled  the  sight  of  men, 

And  past  in  dolour  to  a  mournful  wood 

Where  seldom  rang  the  voice  of  knights  from  chase 

Returning,  but  instead  the  dismal  cry 

Of  owl  in  deepest  shadows  hid,  or  beast 

That  prey'd  upon  his  brother  beast,  like  man 

On  man,  and  there,  a  hermit,  lived  the  space 

Of  three  long  years,  and  there,  a  hermit,  died. 

Now  at  this  time  Sir  Ector  and  Sir  Bors, 

With  others  of  the  broken  Table  Round, 

Coming  to  crave  a  blessing  at  his  hands, 

Found  when  they  gain'd  the  cave  beneath  the  rocks 

That  fring'd  the  gloomy  base  of  a  low  hill, 

That  he,  the  holy  man  they  sought,  had  died 

An  hour  before,  and  like  a  summer  storm 

Their  grief,  and  like  a  torrent  flow'd  their  tears. 


POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS  93 

Then  he,  Sir  Ector,  standing  at  the  feet 

Of  Launcelot,  and  lifting  up  a  voice 

That  shook  with  anguish,  cried  aloud,  "  Thou  wert, 

Sir  Launcelot,  head  of  all  the  Christian  knights  !  " 

And  hiding  in  his  scarf  a  face  all  marr'd 

With  weeping,  wept  again. 

There  came  a  hush 
Upon  them,  broken  not  until  Sir  Bors 
DeGanis,  nephew  of  the  dead,  cried  out  :  — 
"  Sir  Launcelot,  there  thou  liest,  and  I  dare 
To  say  that  thou  wert  never  matcht  of  none 
Among  all  earthly  knighrs,  and  that  thou  wert 
The  courtliest  knight  that  ever  bare  a  shield, 
And  to  thy  lover  truest  friend  of  all 
That  ever  rode  an  horse,  and  that  thou  wert 
The  truest  lover  of  a  sinful  man 
That  ever  woman  loved,  and  tenderest  man 
Wert  thou  that  ever  struck  with  sword,  and  thou 
The  goodliest  person  among  press  of  knights, 
And  thou  the  gentlest  and  the  meekest  man 
That  ever  among  ladies  ate  in  hall, 
And  to  thy  mortal  foe  the  sternest  knight 
That  ever  put  spear  in  the  rest." 

Then  rose 
A  sharp  and  bitter  cry  from  those  who  stood 


94  POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS 

Beside,  and  stooping  down  they  rais'd  the  dead 
And  reverently  bare  him  forth,  the  flower 
Of  knighthood,  dead  before  his  time. 

And  one, 

His  brother  Lionel,  a  knight  who  seem'd 
In  the  mid-strength  and  flourish  of  his  youth, 
Walk'd  last  of  all  with  downdropt  eyes  until 
They  reach' d  the  castle  of  the  Joyous  Guard, 
There  he  abode  till  two  days  after  mass 
Was  sung  above  Sir  Launcelot,  and  the  sound 
Of  rolling  music  surg'd  along  the  aisles 
Of  the  small  chapel  at  the  Joyous  Guard, 
And  died  in  mournful  murmurs  like  the  wind 
In  clefts  and  hollows  of  some  crag  above 
A  heaving  stormful  sea.      But  when  the  knights, 
Sir  Ector  and  Sir  Bors  and  all  the  rest, 
Had  gone  their  ways  and  left  Sir  Launcelot  tomb'd 
At  altar-foot,  the  young  Sir  Lionel 
Departed  by  another  way  from  these, 
And  past  into  a  wide  waste  land  that  lay 
On  both  sides  of  a  sullen  stream  that  swept 
Round  many  a  loop  of    fenland  to  the  sea. 
Here  in  a  shatter' d  castle  of  his  own 
That  stood  half-islanded  by  the  dark  stream, 
He  past  a  lonely  autumn-tide,  nor  knew 
Nor  car'd  what  hapt  amid  the  world  of  men  ; 
For  ever  was  he  thinking  of  the  dead 


POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS  95 

Sir  Laur.celot,  and  saying  to  himself, 

"  Would  I  had  died  if  so  be  he  had  liv'd  : 

Full  gladly  had  I  given  my  life  for  his." 

And  had  his  brother  knights  beheld  him  then, 

They  might  have  deem'd  the  death  he  crav'd  was 

near  ; 

For  like  to  one  whose  days  have  shrunk  to  hours 
He  sat  in  hall  unheeding,  while  the  wind 
Tore  at  the  casement  and  was  loud  without. 

So  ran  the  autumn  to  its  end.      Each  night 
The  little  marshy  pools  were  film'd  with  ice, 
Rime  whiten' d  the  tall  reeds  that  grew  beside, 
And  winter  came,  and  still  Sir  Lionel 
Abode  in  gloom  ;  but  on  a  day  in  spring 
Nigh  to  Our  Lady's  feast,  a  sudden  glow 
O'erspread  the  land  and  brake  from  out  the  earth 
In  flarne  of  crocus  and  of  violet. 
And  on  that  day  Sir  Lionel  awoke, 
And  on  that  day  bethought  him  of  the  world, 
And  felt  such  stirrings  of  his  youthful  blood 
As  if  the  chase  or  tourney  beckoned  him. 
Fill'd  with  the  rush  of  old  impetuous 
Desires,  Sir  Lionel  was  moved  to  leap 
At  once  to  horse  and  lightly  ride  away, 
But  limbs  disus'd  from  action  held  him  fast. 
At  which  he  chaf'd  and  murmur' d  but  endur'd 


96  POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS 

Till  all  his  wonted  strength  return' d  and  he 
Look'd  like  a  copy  of  that  Launcelot 
Who  in  his  younger  days  flasht  thro'  the  lists 
And  charg'd,  in  shock  of  tourney,  past  the  eyes 
Of  ladies  and  of  kings  at  Camelot. 

The  Easter-tide  was  past  when  on  a  morn 

In  green  mid-April,  young  Sir  Lionel, 

To  southward  turning,  rode  from  out  that  wild 

Waste  country  to  a  westward-gazing  land 

That  breath' d  of  coming  summer.      On  the  branch 

O'erhead  the  bud  had  swell'd  to  leaf,  in  hue 

Pale  emerald  shot  with  threads  of  gold.      The  birds 

Made  riotous  music  in  mid-air,  and  all 

The  turf  burn'd  with  the  daffodil's  sharp  flame. 

Upon  the  brow  of  a  low  hill  that  cleft 

The  plain  a  half-league  distant,  rose  the  walls 

Of  a  great  castle  from  whose  highest  tower 

There  flutter' d  a  white  ensign  cross' d  with  bars 

Of  gold,  that  now  and  ever  caught  the  sun 

And  flasht  against  the  blue  of  sky  beyond. 

This  when  he  saw,  the  knight  spake  to  his  squire, 

A  man  in  years  much  past  his  own,  "  I  pray 

You  stay  till  I  return,"  and  he  made  speech 

In  answer,  "Yea,  my  lord."      Thereat  the  knight 

Put  spurs  to  horse  and  rode  to  castle  gate, 

That  stood  wide  open  and  no  man  was  near. 


POST-LAUREATE    IDTLLS  97 

Above  the  keystone  one  long  since  had  carv'd, 

With  intricate  device  of  blazoning, 

A  shield  and  legend  on  a  streaming  scroll, 

But  all  were  dim  with  years,  and  none  might  tell 

The  sculptor's  meaning  save  that  on  the  scroll 

"Amor"  yet  linger'd,  as  if  one  should  say 

That  love  outlasted  pride  of  place  and  name. 

Much  pond' ring  on  this  thing,  Sir  Lionel 

Rode  slowly  o'er  the  drawbridge  'neath  the  gate 

And  past  within  the  courtyard.      Nothing  stirr'd 

To  meet  his  coming,  tho'  his  horse's  hoofs 

Sent  all  the  echoes  flying  back  from  wall 

To  wall,  and  for  a  space  Sir  Lionel 

Sat  silent  on  his  horse  and  gaz'd  upon 

The  empty  courtyard.      On  three  sides  rose  up 

A  high  grey  wall,  doorless  and  windovvless, 

But  on  the  fourth  an  archway  pierc'd  the  stone, 

In  which  a  door  swung  lightly  with  each  puff 

Of  wind.      This  seeing,  Lionel  was  mov'd 

To  pass  beyond.      Dismounting  from  his  horse, 

He  lightly  overran  the  steep  stone  steps, 

And  pushing  with  one  hand  the  oaken  door, 

Past  in.      Thereat  the  door  clang' d  to  with  sound 

Like  thunder,  nor  would  ope  again.      In  awe, 

Yet  nowise  daunted,  Lionel  enter' d  now 

A  hall  hung  round  with  'broideries  that  mov'd 


98  POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS 

In  the  light  breeze  that  thro'  the  doorway  past 

With  him,  and  at  the  farther  end  there  sat 

An  ancient  maiden  clad  in  faded  cloth 

Of  yellow  samite.      Faded  were  the  eyes 

That  lookt  on  him,  and  faded  too  the  hue 

That  once  had  been  sweet  colour  in  the  cheeks, 

And  he,  beholding,  deem' d  her  more  than  twice 

His  years,  and,  for  she  spake  no  word,  bow'd  low, 

And  said  with  reverence  as  became  a  knight 

In  presence  of  a  dame  of  rank  and  years 

Like  hers,  "Good-morrow,  aunt."    At  this  a  smile, 

As  wintry  watery  as  the  gleam  that  strikes 

Athwart  a  barren  land  at  close  of  some 

November  afternoon,  lit  up  a  while 

The  sombre  visage  that  was  turn'd  to  him, 

And  ere  it  past  she  pointed  with  a  hand 

To  which,  uncompanied,  a  jewel  clung  ; 

And  following  with  his  eyes  the  hand,  he  saw 

An  arch  behind  her,  wherethro'  Lionel  past 

In  silence,  reverencing  her  mood,  and  came 

Into  a  hall  ten  paces  longer  than 

That  other  hung  with  'broideries,  but  this 

With  silken  hangings,  wonders  of  the  loom. 

Upon  a  dais  midway  of  the  space, 

Beneath  a  canopy  of  crimson  silk, 

Sat  one  who  seem'd  a  sister  unto  her, 

The  ancient  maiden  of  the  vellow  robe, 


POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS  111) 

But  yet  twin  lustrums  younger,  for  her  eyes 
Not  wholly  fail'd  their  charm,  and  on  her  gown 
Of  samite  crimson  folded  hands  lay  yet 
Unshrunken.      Unto  her  Sir  Lionel 
With  utmost  grace  of  courtesy  stoopt  low 
Until  the  plume  upon  his  helmet  swept 
The  floor,  and  with  a  voice  that  seem'd  all  made 
Of  courtesy,  "I  pray  you,  gentle  aunt, 
Good-morrow  !" 

At  the  words  she  rose  from  out 
Her  chair  beneath  the  crims.on  canopy, 
And  lifting  a  white  arm,  wherefrom  the  folds 
Of  samite  crimson  slipt  in  gleaming  lines, 
With  slender  finger  pointed  to  a  door 
Half  hid  in  ^shadow,  smiling  as  the  sun 
Of  middle  summer  smiles  across  a  field 
Of  rip'ning  wheat.      In  silence  Lionel 
Obey'd  the  motion  of  the  finger  point, 
Push'd  ope  the  door  which  clos'd  behind  with  sound 
That  jarr'd  the  nerves  of  silence,  leaving  him 
Alone  within  a  corridor  that  led, 
After  long  windings,  to  a  lofty  hall 
Lighted  by  three  vast  windows  in  which  flam'd 
The  story  of  the  great  Pendragonship 
In  saffron,  gules,  and  azure.      On  the  walls 
Were  dinted  shields  a  many.      From  the  roof 


100  POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS 

Droop' t  faded  banners  of  some  mighty  king. 

All  this  Sir  Lionel  saw  not,  or  saw 

As  one  whose  heart  is  elsewhere  sees  the  shapes 

Of  men  and  things  about  him,  but  of  them 

Thinks  naught  ;  for  now  his  eyes  were  fixt  on  one 

Who  mov'd  to  meet  him  in  a  samite  robe 

Of  palest  azure,  over  which  a  vine 

Wrought  all  of  pearls,  as  thickly  sown  as  turt 

With  trembling  sparkles  after  April  showers, 

At  random  wander' d  from  the  throat  to  hem. 

Beholding  stood  Sir  Lionel,  like  one 

Who  after  many  years  of  darkness  sees 

For  the  first  time.      Ne'er  had  he  known  a  maid 

So  beautiful,  for  on  her  cheek  there  lay 

The  rose,  and  on  her  brow  the  lily.      Hair 

Like  ripples  of  pale  sunshine  made  a  light 

About  her  like  a  glory,  and  her  eyes 

Seem'd  like  twin  stars. 

Silent  he  stood  such  space 
As  one  might  count  an  hundred,  then  upon 
One  knee  in  reverence  bending,  spake  aloud  : — 
"  Good-morrow,  maiden  — aunt  I  may  not  say  ; 
Sister  I  dare  not  —  yet  were  you  like  these, 
I  might  good-morrow  bid  you,  aunts  all  three. 
This  can  I  not ;  but  if  you  be  of  earth, 
As  sure  I  almost  deem  that  one  so  fair 


POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS  101 

Was  not  of  earthly  mother  born,  I  fain 
Would  be  your  eager,  faithful  knight  to  serve 
You  in  such  wise  as  you  may  deem  me  fit.  " 
Thereat  the  maid,  extending  a  white  hand, 
Sign'd  him  to  rise  ;    when  he,  that  moment  seiz'd 
With  rapture  of  wild  love,  caught  at  the  hand 
And  kiss'd  it  twice  or  thrice,  but  ere  his  lips 
Had  left  it  came  a  darkness  over  him, 
And  in  the  midst  of  that  great  darkness  was 
A  voice  that  sang,  and  sadly  sweet  the  words. 
And  when  the  song  had  end  the  darkness  past, 
And  he  upon  his  horse  once  more,  beside 
His  squire,  was  gazing  on  that  land  that  slop'd 
To  westward  ;  but  the  castle  no  man  saw 
Thenceforward,  and  Sir  Lionel  went  his  way. 


102  POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS 

THE  PLEASAUNCE  OF  MAID  MARIAN 

ARGUMENT 

"Mary,  Mary,  quite  contrary, 

Hoiv  does  jour  garden  gro-zt'  ? 
Sil-ver  bells  and  cockle  shells 

And  fair  maids  all  in  a  row." 

Isolt  the  White,  the  daughter  of  a  king, 

Hoel  of  Brittany,  the  same  who  wed 

Sir  Tristram  of  the  Woods,  who  lov'd  her  not, 

Within  a  shadowy  hall  sat  by  herself, 

Upon  an  autumn  midnight  drencht  with  rain 

And  loud  with  shrieking  of  the  gale,  and  mus'd 

How  her  white  hands  had  been  too  weak  to  hold 

Her  lord,  Sir  Tristram,  who  had  sworn  to  love 

But  her,  then  lightly  broken,  for  the  man 

Was  light,  his  promis'd  word.      He  first  had  call'd 

Her  by  that  name,  Isolt  of  the  White  Hands, 

When  those  white  hands  had  heal'd  him  of  his  hurt 

Got  in  some  tourney  held  in  Brittany, 

And  she  had  lov'd  him  for  the  name,  and  thought, 

"  Full  surely  is  he  mine  as  I  am  his  ; " 

And  this  had  lasted  but  the  waxing  old 

Of  the  same  moon  that  crescive  saw  them  wed. 

Then  he  had  left  her  taking  slight  farewell, 

And  over  seas  had  come  no  word  from  him 

Of  bale  or  comfort,  and  a  year  was  past. 


POST-LAUREATE    IDTLLS  103 

Now  as  she  mus'd  on  love,  and  musing  felt 
Aweary  of  her  life  because  no  love 
Was  had  for  her,  the  tempest-driven  rain 
Beat  at  the  casement,  and  small  puffs  of  wind 
Flutter' d  the  flame  that  burnt  upon  the  hearth, 
And  stirr'd  the  many-coloured  tapestries 
That  lin'd  the  wall  ;  and  once  a  fiercer  gust, 
It  seem'd,  drave  ope  the  door,  and  with  the  wind 
And  rain  there  came  one  trailing  dripping  wee  is 
Of  samite  after.      Then  Isolt  thereat 
Rais'd  eyes  amist  with  tears,  and  thro'  these  saw 
Her  cousin,  sharp  of  tongue,  sharper  of  face, 
Of  all  men  call'd  Maid  Marian  the  curst, 
And  gave  a  doubtful  welcome.      Thereupon 
The  sharp-fac'd  damsel,  clanging  to  the  door, 
Laught  shrilly,  crying  out  the  while  : 

"  Your  guest, 

Good  cousin,  is  not  to  your  mind,  meseems." 
Thereat  Isolt,  as  stung  to  courtsey 
Perforce,  would  fain  have  call'd  for  lights,  and  food 
And  all  things  needful,  had  not  she,  the  maid, 
Shook  off  in  haste  constraining  hands  and  cried  : 
"  I  care  not  for  your  simple  kindnesses, 
Cousin  Isolt  ;  "    then  louder,    "  I  have  news 
Of  him  you  call  your  Tristram,  so  much  yours 
Indeed  as  any  knight  may  be  the  prize 


104  POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS 

Of  one  among  a  score  of  maidens  whom 
He  loves  and  leaves." 

By  this,  Isolt  the  White, 

Trembling  to  hear  what  she  for  long  had  fear'd 
To  hear,  had  murmur' d,  "  False,  my  cousin,  false," 
But  that  Maid  Miriam  shrill' d  it  once  again  : 
"  Ay  !  yours  and  hers,  and  any  woman's  else 
On  whom  his  fancy  lights,"  and  crying  out 
On  all  false  lovers,  fled  into  the  dark 
That  clos'd  about  her,  and  Isolt  was  left 
To  such  small  comfort  as  her  prayers  might  yield. 

But  when  the  morrow  brake  upon  a  world 
Washt  clean  with  tempest,  light' d  by  a  sun 
That  drave  the  mists  before  in  streaming  lines 
Of  golden  vapour,  she,  the  white  Isolt, 
Out  of  a  tender  heart  was  fain  to  doubt 
The  word  Maid  Marian  brought,  had  not  the  maid 
Stood  once  again  before  her  crying,  "  Come  ! 
Sad  cousin,  and  behold  your  lord." 

So  they, 

The  twain,  took  ship,  past  over  seas,  and  came 
To  where  Tintagel  with  its  crown  of  towers, 
Defies  with  frowning  might  of  splinter' d  crag 
The  stormful  tossing  seas  of  Lyonnesse. 
There,  favour' d  by  the  tangl'd  arms  of  trees 
That  stretcht  deep  shadows  on  the  landward  side 


POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS  105 

Of  the  huge  castle,  went  they  by  a  path 
That  led  with  many  windings  to  the  tower 
Of  Queen  Isolt  of  Britain,  she  men  call'd 
The  Fair.      Within  her  bower  she  lay  asleep 
Upon  an  azure-broider'd  silken  couch, 
And  half  her  robe  had  slipt  aside  and  show'd 
A  silver  skin  glossy  as  satin,  fair 
As  none  was  fair  before  in  all  that  land. 

At  her  Maid  Marian  pointed  hissing,  "  See  ! 
The    false    queen    whom    false    Tristram    loves." 

Then  she, 

Isolt  of  the  White  Hands  beholding  Queen 
Isolt  the  Fair,  belov'd  of  Tristram,  knew 
That  never  would  he  leave  that  woman  there, 
That  woman  in  the  high  tide  of  her  youth, 
That  woman  with  the  glory  in  her  hair, 
For  her,  his  faded  wife  of  Brittany, 
For  her,  his  pale  Isolt  of  the  White  Hands, 
And  bitter  was  this  knowledge  unto  her, 
And  bitter,  too,  the  cry  within  her  heart 
At  thought  of  it. 

Now,  as  they  drew  behind 
The  silken  hangings  of  the  room,  the  queen 
Awoke,  a  step  came  up  the  circling  stair, 


106  POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS 

And  Tristram  enter'd,  whom  all  women  lov'd. 
On  him  the  twain  gaz'd  through  the  narrow  rents 
That  time  had  worn  within  the  hangings'  folds 
And  saw  him  stoop  to  greet  the  queen  with  kiss 
Such  as  he  never  yet  had  laid  upon 
The  lips  of  her  of  Brittany,  and  heard 
Those  false  ones  utter  their  adult' rous  love 
Till  gloom  had  fallen,  and  King  Mark,  whom  none 
Remember' d,  softly  stole  into  the  bower 
And  from  behind  false  Tristram  clove  his  skull 
From  crown  to  nape.      So  died  the  sinful  knight 
Belov'd  of  women,  slain  by  him  he  wrong' d. 
But  she,  Isolt  the  Fair,  beholding  him 
She  lov'd  dead  at  her  feet,  and  him  she  loath' d 
Holding  the  sword,  rais'd  such  a  storm  as  husht 
The  outcry  of  those  twain  in  hiding  there, 
And  swiftly  moving  to  the  casement's  edge, 
And  shrieking,  "  Him  I  follow  whom  I  love," 
Leapt  into  that  white  surge  which  foam'd  below, 
And  past  to  judgement  as  the  sinful  pass. 

Then  came  the  white  Isolt  with  Marian 
Forth  from  her  place,  and  stood  beside  the  dead 
Sir  Tristram,  crying,  "  He  is  mine,  none  else 
May  claim  him  dead,  for  he  was  mine,  not  hers  ;" 
Whereat  the  king  star'd  full  upon  her.      Face 
And  voice  alike  he  knew  not,  but  some  thought 


POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS  107 

That  she  too  was  by  Tristram  wrong' d,  mov'd  him 
To  growl  in  churlish  answer, 

f<  Woman,  take 

The  man  you  claim,  if  you  will  have  him  dead 
Who  living  little  lov'd  you,  as  I  deem,  " 
Then  turn'd  and  past  adown  the  stair,  but  sent 
No  long  time  after  two  stout  churls  to  bear 
Dead  Tristram  forth  where  these  two  women  will'd. 

So  white  Isolt  bore  home  her  murder' d  lord 

Across  the  sea  to  Brittany,  and  there 

Entomb' d  him  piously  like  some  dead  saint, 

And  made  a  pleasaunce  all  about  where  vine 

And  flower  grew  thickly,  and  would  walk  therein 

At  morning,  noon,  and  even,  silently, 

Till  three    slow    twelvemonths    past,    when    there 

was  dole 

In  Brittany.  So  hers  they  made  the  tomb 
She  built  for  sinful  Tristram  of  the  Woods, 
And  after  that  long  sorrow  follow' d  peace. 

But  one  whom  Tristram  lov'd  in  earlier  times, 
Maid  Marian,  when  she  was  fair  as  she 
That  wedded  Mark,  came  when  Isolt  was  dead 
And  pac'd  the  pleasaunce  silently  at  morn 
And  noon  and  even,  sowing  seeds  of  some 


108  POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS 

Strange  plant  from  far-off  lands,  that  bloom' d  when 

next 

The  summer  came,  in  fair  white  silver  bells 
Of  fragrance  such  as  no  man  in  that  land 
Had  knowledge  of,   and  by  the  tomb  of  him 
All  women  lov'd  she  laid  the  fiery-edg'd 
And  many-wrinkl'd  shells  that  hold  within 
Themselves  the  voices  of  the  sea.      And  when 
The  autumn  tempests  came  upon  that  shore, 
Driven  from   streaming  seas,  she  flitted  through 
Her  wind-torn,  faded,  dripping  pleasaunce  like 
Some  wan  leaf  flying  before  a  gale.      And  high 
At  such  times  shrill' d  her  voice  in  broken  song, 
That  seem'd  the  harsh  note  of  some  bird  at  sea. 

"False  life  !  false  love  !   Oh,  why  was  I  deceiv'd  ? 

False  heart  !     false  love,  that  I,  poor  maid,  believ'd  ! 

False  life  !     false  love,  that  me  of  hope  bereav'd  ! 

False  heart,  false  love  ! 

False  lips  !    false  tongue  that  spake  false  vows  to  me  ! 

False  face  !  false  eyes,  whence  truth  did  turn  and  flee ! 

False  hand !  false  heart  that  brake  sweet  love' s  decree ! 

False  life!      false  love!" 

But  when  the  spring  was  nigh  there  came  to  her 

A  little  comfort  from  the  budding  leaf, 

As  still  she  pac'd  the  pleasaunce  sowing  seeds 


POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS  109 

Of  that    strange  plant,    and    year    by    year    there 

bloom' d 

Within  it  such  a  wilderness  of  branch 
And  flower  and  wandering  vine  as  none  had   seen 
The  like.      Now  fifty  tides  of  Martinmas 
Were  past  and  over  when  there  came  a  gale 
Fiercer  than  any  on  that  wind-swept  coast, 
And  in  the  night  above  the  storm  some  heard 
The  song  that  ancient  Marian  sang  at  whiles 
Of  false  love  and  false  life,  and  hearing  shook 
With  fear  of  some  dread  thing. 

But  those  who  stirr'd 
Upon  the  morrow  earliest  beheld 
Within  the  pleasaunce,  on  the  tomb  of  him 
All  women  lov'd,  the  dead  maid  Marian. 
About  her  brows  was  wound  a  faded  scarf 
That  dead  Sir  Tristram  wore  as  knight  of  hers 
Full  sixty  dusty  summers  back  at  some 
Forgotten  tourney  held  in  Brittany, 
And  in  her  hand  was  claspt  a  golden  chain 
That  he  had  given  her,  and  some  there  were 
Who  held  that  death  had  made  her  fair  again, 
Working  a  miracle  for  very  ruth. 
So  past  her  soul  to  judgement  and  its  rest. 
But  when  three  days  were  past    there    stood    ten 
maids 


110  POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS 

Arow  within  the  pleasaunce  strewing  blooms 
Of  latest  autumn  on  the  tomb  disturb' d 
Once  more  to  hold  the  dust  of  Marian. 

Full  quickly  glide  the  years,  and  none  of  all 
Who  knew  that  land  in  those  dim  days  are  left, 
Yet  still  the  pleasaunce  shows  an  isle  of  green 
Midmost  of  a  wide,  open,  herbless  space, 
A  desolate,  waste  country  no  man  tills. 


POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS  111 

GAWAIN  AND  MARJORIE 

ARGUMENT 

"  See,  saiv,  Margery  Da-iv  : 
Sold  her  bed  and  lay  on  straiv." 

The  first  born  son  of  Lot  and  Bellicent, 
Gawain,  in  far-off  days  of  striplinghood, — 
Before  men  call' d  him  "  false  "or  "  light  of  love," 
And  yet  the  same,  for  as  the  boy,  the  man, — 
Half-aimless  wandering  upon  a  day 
In  sweet  mid-summer  of  the  Orcades, 
Slack-footed  under  heat  and  thirst,  had  come 
To  a  lone  fountain  iu  the  woods,  and  bode, 
List'ning  the  tinkling  fall  of  waters  cool 
And  watching  the  swift  arrow-flight  of  birds. 
Tall  as  a  man  was  Gawain,  yet  in  sooth 
The  prince  was  but  a  lad  in  years,  and  all 
The  curves  of  his  lithe  body  spoke  the  boy  ; 
But  let  a  twelvemonth  pass  and  these  would  pass. 
So  stood  the  time  with  restless  Gawain,  who 
By  fits  and  starts  chaf'd  at  the  island  ways, 
And  gladly  would  have  left  the  court  of  Lot 
For  lands  to  southward,  but  that  Bellicent 
Had  pray'd  him  "Stay  a  little,"  and  again, 
"O  stay!" 


112  POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS 

Now,  as  it  hapt,  to  quiet  lull'd 
By  fall  of  waters  and  by  stir  of  leaves,, 
He  past  the  gates  of  sleep  before  he  knew, 
And  woke  to  find  the  shadows  trebl'd,  while 
A  face  was  looking  into  his  with  eyes 
Darker  than  water  in  a  sunless  pool  : 
A  maid  scarce  two  years  younger  than  himself. 
A  gown  clung  round  her,  leaving  feet  and  arms 
Bare  to  the  summer's  sun,  and  down  her  back 
There  roll'd  the  rippling  blackness  of  her  hair 
That  sparkl'd  like  the  feathers  of  the  daw. 

All  this  young  Gawain  saw,  half  won  from  sleep, 
And  then  his  marvel  had  found  tongue,  but  she, 
The  maid,  a  little  drawing  to  one  side, 
Took  up  a  lute,  and  twanging  all  the  strings 
A  moment's  space,  sent  out  her  voice  in  song 
That  maz'd  the  hearer,  who  had  never  known 
There  might  be  aught  so  sweet  this  side  of  heaven. 

"  Wind,  sun,  and  rain!  and  sweet  the  murmurs  be 

Of  rill  and  runlet  tinkling  to  the  sea  : 

Yet  not  so  sweet  as  sweet  Love's  voice  to  me. 

"  Rain,  wind,  and  sun!  and  dear  the  wood  paths 

are, 

And  dear  the  glimmering  of  the  evening  star, 
But  not  so  dear  as  Love's  step  heard  from  far. 


POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS  ll-'J 

"Sun,  rain,  and  wind !  and  fair  all  blossoms  shine  ; 
Fairer  are  moonbeams  thro'  the  quivering  vine  : 
Fairer  are  Love's  eyes  looking  into  mine. 

"  Fair,  sweet,  and  dear!  and  light  of  heart  am  I! 
Dear,  fair  and  sweet  !  I  cannot  choose  but  cry. 
Sweet,  fair,  and  dear!  Oh,  love  me,  or  I  die!  " 

So  ran  the  words,  and  when  the  lute  had  twang' d 
Itself  to  silence,  and  the  song  had  end, 
The  maid  had  turn'd  to  pass  adown  the  wood 
Without  a  word  in  parting.      Gawain  then  — 
"Fair,  sweet,  and  dear,  so  seems  thy  song  to  me  : 
What  may  they  call  thee,  singer  ? ' ' 

"  Marjorie," 
The    maid    gave    answer.      Then     the    prince  : 

"Thou  art 

No  maid  of  Orkney,  with  such  eyes  and  hair." 
To  which  the  other  : 

"  No,  but  since  my  life 

Was  pluckt  from  welter  of  down-streaming  seas 
In  some  wild  storm,  so  they  that  sav'd  me  say, 
None  other  home  than  Orkney  have  I  known." 
Then  by  degrees  in  question  and  reply, 
Did  Gawain  learn  the  maiden's  history, 
Simple  enough  and  like  the  maid  herself: 
For  after  that  chance  rescue  from  the  sea, 


114  POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS 

The  rough  shore  folk,  kind  after  their  rough  kind, 
Had  made  her  welcome  unto  all  they  had, 
And  she,  content,  had  dwelt  with  them  till  now. 
And  once  a  damsel  from  King  Arthur's  court 
Had  taught  her  songs ;  she    knew    not    what    they 

meant, 

But  lov'd  to  sing  them  to  the  damsel's  lute. 
She  ceased  and  turn'd  on  Gawain  a  full  face, 
And  crying,  "  An  it  please  you,  sir,  farewell," 
Was  gone  as  lightly  as  the  thistle-down 
Is  blown  along  upon  a  summer  breeze. 
Then  Gawain,  rising,  strode  back  slow  to  court, 
Musing  the  while  upon  the  maid  whose  hair 
Outmatch' d  the  daw's  for  blackness,  and  whose  eyes 
Gleam' d  like  the  water  in  a  sunless  pool, 
And  on  the  morrow  sought  the  forest  fount, 
And  on  the  morrow  after,  and  again 
Until  a  week  was  past,  yet  never  saw 
Her  whom  he  would,  and  day  by  day  grew  sick 
At  heart,  till  all  the  court  had  talk  of  it. 
The  queen  alone,  out  of  her  mother  wit 
At  last  made  happy  hazard  of  the  cause, 
And  drew  from  him  the  story  of  his  love  ; 
And,  for  she  hoped  this  love  might  keep  the  prince 
At  Orkney  ever,  set  herself  to  find 
The  maid,  and  finding,  brought  her  to  the  court 
To  serve  as  maid  of  honour  till  the  time 


POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS  llo 

Were  ripe  for  her  and  Gawain  to  be  wed. 
Then,  thinking,  "  All  is  well  for  them  and  me," 
Bided  content. 

Months  sped  till  twelve  wore  past, 
And  still  Maid  Marjorie  bode  at  the  court ; 
And  Gawain  likewise  bode,  till  through  his  blood 
Ran  sudden  promptings  like  to  drive  him  hence 
Ere  long,  forgetful  of  Maid  Marjorie 
Or  Bellicent.      Now,  as  it  hapt,  there  came 
Rumours  of  Arthur  to  the  Orkney  court, 
And  how  he  beat  the  heathen  down,  and  how 
He  fain  would  build  a  kingdom  in  the  south 
And  rear  a  throne  and  reign  for  love  of  Christ, 
And  how  all  brave  knights  crav'd  to  serve  with  him. 
This  Gawain  heard,  and,  fir'd  with  knightly  zeal, 
Past  in  an  hour  from  boy  to  man,  and  took 
His  armour  from  the  hall,  and  girt  his  sword 
Upon  his  thigh,  mounted  his  horse  and  rode 
Away  to  Arthur  in  the  far  southwest, 
With  scarce  a  word  of  parting. 

Then  the  maid, 

Who  until  Gawain  went  knew  not  her  heart, 
Felt  that  her  heart  was  reft  from  her,  and  droopt 
Like  some  dark  lily  in  an  August  noon  ; 
And  all  the  court  were  ware  and  pitied  her, 


lit)  POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS 

Save  one,  who  fain  had  drawn  Prince  Gawain'  s 

love 

To  her,  and  failing,  hated  all  men  sore, 
But  most  the  maid  in  favour  at  the  court. 

Slow  wan'd  the  months,  and  scant  the  tidings  brought 

Of  Gawain  till  a  year  had  past,  and  then 

A  rumour  blown  about  the  court  proclaim' d 

The  prince  was  yet  with  Arthur,  and  was  made 

One  of  the  Table  Round,  and  now  was  fam'd 

As  much  for  conquest  in  the  court  of  Love 

As  service  in  the  field  or  tournament. 

Many  a  noble  maid,  so  blew  about 

The  word,  had  caught   the    young   knight's  fancy, 

caught, 

But  failed  to  hold,  save  for  a  week  or  month, 
And  he  had  gone  his  way  and  left  the  maid 
To  grieve,  and  all  men  call'd  him  "  light  of  love, " 
"  False  Gawain,"  too,  but  naught  did  Gawain  care. 
Now  when  the  accusing  whisper  reach' d  the  queen, 
She  laid  command  no  tongue  should  tell  the  tale 
To  Marjorie  ;  but  one,  the  vengeful  maid 
Past  o'er  by  Gawain,  brought  the  flying  word 
To  Marjorie,  and,  fierce  with  spite,  told  all. 

This  when  the  damsel  Gawain  first  had  lov'd 
Heard  but  still  clung  to  hope,  she  straightway  came 


POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS  117 

To  Bellicent  beseeching  that  the  queen 
Would  grant  her  escort  of  some  faithful  squire, 
That  she  might  go  herself  to  Arthur's  court 
Of  Camelot  ;  and  pitying  Bellicent, 
Making  no  question,  knowing  well  the  cause, 
Granted  the  boon,  but  swell' d  it  till  the  maid 
Was  'compani'd  befitting  one  of  rank. 

Then  followed  weary  days,  for  first  there  came 
The  passage  over  seas,  and  journey  rough 
By  ways  of  peril  next,  until  they  drew 
Nigh  unto  Arthur's  city  of  the  West, 
The  hundred-tower' d  Camelot. 

It  hapt 

That  day  the  king  rode  forth  alone,  and  met 
The  damsel  and  her  train  ;  she  knew  him  not, 
But  staying  him  besought  his  kingly  grace 
To  tell  her  if  Prince  Gawain  yet  abode 
Within  that  city.      These  were  all  her  words, 
Yet  her  whole  hist'ry  trembl'd  in  her  voice, 
Flusht  in  the  rose  upon  her  cheek. 

Then  he, 

The  blameless  king,  thought  in  himself,  "  This  maid 
Is  one  our  Gawain  light  has  lightly  lov'd  ;  " 
And  then  to  her  :  —  "  The  knight  of  whom  you  ask 
Is  absent  far  upon  a  quest  of  mine  ; 


118  POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS 

Not  for  a  month  will  he  return  —  but  bide 
You  here  at  court  that  space.      I  am  the  king." 

So  Marjorie  abode  with  Guinevere, 
To  whom  the  king  that  night  unbarr'd  his   thought 
And  added,  "  When  the  prince  returns,  those  twain 
Shall  be  made  one  by  Dubric,  shall  they  not  ?  " 
And  she  :  "  Your  will  is  ever  mine,  my  lord," 
And  set  herself  to  bring  the  thing  to  pass. 

Now  when  the  month  had  end  and  he  came  not, 
And  yet  another  month  and  still  he  lagg'd, 
Maid  Marjorie,  boding  ill,  crav'd  to  be  free, 
To  go  and  seek  him  ;  and  the  kindly  king, 
Doubtful,  but  fearing  to  deny  the  maid, 
Let  her  go  forth  in  charge  of  good  Sir  Bors. 
Three  days  they  rode,  till  on  an  eventide 
They  came  to  a  lone  castle  on  a  crag, 
Empty  in  seeming  while  the  gate  swung  wide, 
And,  for  they  needed  shelter,  enter' d.      Scarce 
The  band  had  clear' d  the  archway,  ere  the  gate 
Clang' d  to  behind  them,  and  an  evil  host 
Who  made  that  dismal  place  their  robbers'  nest 
Fell  on  the  slender  train  with  swarming  force, 
Disarm' d  and  bound  them,  though  Sir  Bors  fought 
hard. 


POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS  119 

Then  Marjorie,  who  in  woman-fear  had  cower'd 
Till  now  within  her  litter,  drew  aside 
The  hangings.      Mov'd  by  her  strange  beauty,  yet 
Still  more  by  her  sweet  voice  beseeching  them, 
The  host,  scarce  knowing  why,  made  pause.      Then 

she, 

Fing'ring  her  lute,  sang  as  she  once  had  sung 
To  Gawain  on  that  day  when  first  they  met. 
And  when  the  song  was  done,  she  crav'd  from  these 
Freedom  for  all  her  train,  and  in  exchange 
Offer' d  her  litter  and  rich  hangings.      They, 
Won  by  the  sweetness  of  the  song,  or  fill'd 
With  sudden  madness  never  felt  before, 
Gave  all  she  ask'd  and  set  their  captives  free. 

That  night  they  lay  on  damp  and  mouldy  straw 

Within  a  lowly  hovel  in  the  wood, 

And  on  the  morrow  would  have  gone  once  more 

Upon  their  quest  had  not  a  fever  seiz'd 

The  maid  and  held  her  fast  ;  and  good  Sir  Bors, 

Knowing  the  deadly  fever  of  that  land, 

Was  ware  the  end  was  near. 

So  past  two  days, 

And  on  the  third  they  heard  the  jingling  reins 
Of  horses,  and  a  train  of  knights  and  dames 
Drew  near  and  stay'd  to  rest.      Sir  Bors,  alert, 
Amongst  them  spying  Gawain  close  to  one 


120  POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS 

Whose  name  was  lightly  tost  about  the  court,  — 
The  subtle  Vivien,  —  pluckt  him  by  the  sleeve, 
Crying  ' '  Come  hence  with  me ! ' '  And  Gawain  went 
And  after  them  stole  Vivien,  and  the  three, 
Ent'ring  the  hovel,  came  where  Marjorie  lay 
Moaning  with  fever  on  her  bed  of  straw. 
She,  feeling  subtly  the  fine  Gawain' s  eyes 
Upon  her  bent  in  wonder,  open'd  hers, 
Half  rais'd  herself,  and  stretching  out  her  arms 
Toward  him,  gave  a  joyful  cry,  and  past 
Without  more  utterance  where  no  soul  is  vext 
With  sighing  or  the  myriad  pains  of  earth. 
So  died  the  maid  Prince  Gawain  first  had  lov'd. 

He,  when  he  saw  the  damsel  dead,  and  heard 
The  voice  of  good  Sir  Bors,   "  Your  work,   my 

Prince!" 

Had  felt  a  pain  much  like  remorse  within, 
And  would  have  stay'd  to  see  that  all  was  done 
Fitting  the  time  and  her,  but  Vivien  came 
And  wound  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  said 
This  thing  and  that  thing  of  her  wiliness  : 
So  maz'd  by  Vivien  was  light  Gawain's  thought 
That  he  departed  leaving  all  to  Bors. 

Four  days  had  end,  and  into  Camelot 
Light  Gawain  rode  with  Vivien  beside, 


POST-LAUREATE    IDYLLS  121 

But  all  the  walls  were  hung  with  black,  and  all 
The  bells  made  music  doleful  from  their  towers. 
Forth  from  the  palace  came  a  train  of  maids 
Chanting  a  hymn,  and  after,  on  a  bier 
Pall'd  all  in  samite  blackness,  lay  the  maid 
Whose  love  had  been  her  doom.      King,  queen,  and 

court 

Pac'd  slowly  after,  and  King  Arthur  bent 
A  brow  of  gloom  on  Gawain,  but  said  naught. 
Then  Gawain  turn'd  and  fbllow'd  the  dark  train 
Till  all  was  done,  the  while  that  music  roll'd 
Sadly  above  the  head  of  Marjorie. 
Then,  for  the  man  was  light,  he  past  once  more 
To  his  light  loves  ;  and  all  that  was,  became 
Erewhile  to  him  as  that  which  never  hapt. 
Such  honour  Gawain  did  to  Arthur's  court. 


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A  Brief  Handbook  of  American  Authors 

Post-Laureate  Idylls 

Dear  Old  Story  Tellers 

The  Story  of  Jane  Austen  s  Life 

"•The  Presumption  of  Sex 

A  Dictionary  of  American  Authors 

The  Archbishop' s  Unguarded  Moment 

Some  Famous  American  Schools 

EDITED 
Through  the  Tear  with  the  Poets, 

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